Fairytale of New York
by Silvey M
Summary: So many people live without understanding what it's like to be loved. They live whole lives thinking it's normal, perhaps not knowing anything is missing. To escape, all one needs is an unbelievable encounter--just like Marjorie is about to experience...
1. Chapter One

**Fairytale of New York**

**Chapter One: An Unprecedented Arrival**

A/N: Just a note for newcomers--I'd like to say now that my original characters will not become the love interest of any of Weisman's cast, be they gargoyle or otherwise. I'm not into the Mary Sue thing. If that starts happening here, it's a good indication that someone has stolen my identity and you should call the police.

* * *

This story begins, as so many do, with the arrival of a letter.

It was just past noon on Saturday, April 15th, and Marjorie still hadn't gotten up yet. This was highly unusual for her; on Saturdays she was up before the sun, well on her way to the nearest Subway station to catch the early morning commuters. After she'd earned her lunch money, she'd then leisurely make her way down to Central park to whichever one of her favorite busking spots was still available. She usually spend the rest of her afternoon in the park, finally ending her day at whichever gig or rehearsal presented itself.

She had become so accustomed to this that when she finally did wake up to the sound of what could only be her landlady knocking loudly on her apartment door, she was so surprised to see that she had overslept that it took her nearly a minute to realize that Carole was still knocking.

"Well, you are here," Carole greeted her with a nod. "I'd thought you'd've gone out by now. Sleeping in for once, were you?"

"Yeah," Marjorie agreed, her eyes still squinting from sleep. "Uh…Yeah."

"And here I thought you were a morning person," Carole said dryly. "Letter came for you." Carole held up a battered looking envelope, looking at her all the while with sharp interest.

Marjorie reached out to take it, mystified. Tenants had their own mailbox on the first floor, and Marjorie hardly got anything but junk mail anyway, never mind anything worth delivering in person. "Uh…okay. It's not the black spot, is it? Am I being evicted?"

"Not before you pay this month's rent, you're not," Carole answered. "And I wouldn't have even noticed that letter if the mailman hadn't gotten _me_ out of bed to specifically give it to you."

"What?" Marjorie knew that her landlady had a strange sense of humor, and now fully awake, she looked Carole over for any sign that she was joking. All she could see in her face, however, was genuine curiosity. "The mailman woke you up to deliver this personally?"

Carole gave a small puff of a sigh. "Tell me about it." As Carole leaned back against the wall, Marjorie noticed that Carole was still obviously dressed for bed, wearing a flannel nightgown and baby blue bathrobe. "He's still downstairs. He wanted to come up, but figured you were already out, and I don't let strangers in past the lobby anyways."

Marjorie looked back up from the letter to see that Carole was watching her. "There's no return address…"

"Read the address," Carole said after an unnerving pause. Suddenly uneasy, Marjorie looked down at the letter in her hands. It read:

_Marjorie Campbell_

_6th floor_

_Historic Building Under Manhattan Bridge_

_DUMBO_

_NY NY_

Who addressed letters like this? Marjorie wondered. She supposed it was amazing in itself that the letter had even managed to be delivered at all, but still, why would it be such a big deal that Carole would get out of bed before three—

The right-hand corner of the envelope caught her eye. She blinked, looked at it closer, and blinked again. "This is postmarked four years ago," she said slowly. She looked back to Carole. "I didn't live in this building four years ago. I didn't even live in New York."

Carole didn't say anything, but she this had clearly already occurred to her. "The guy says it's been floating around in his office for years now. For some reason they've never been able to confirm the address until today, and they've tried redirecting it to where ever the lost mail is supposed to go, but it keeps turning back up….not his problem anymore, I'd say."

There was a pause between them in the hall, and Marjorie suddenly felt the air tense around them, but she couldn't bring herself to open the letter.

"Well, I'll be going back to bed," Carole finally said with reluctance. "Remember, rent by the end of the month."

Marjorie watched her shuffle off, and then quietly closed the door. She reread the postmark again, thinking she must have been mistaken, but no matter how many times she looked at it, it remained the same: March 1st, 1991.

Marjorie placed the letter on the table of her kitchen (which was actually just an overlarge stool) and started making tea and popped half a bagel in her hulking toaster, needlessly arranging the dishes and things on the counter. She munched her bagel and sipped her tea and tidied up around her apartment, and when she ran out of things to straighten and arrange she started to dust, until she remembered how much she hated cleaning and realized that dusting would not make the letter disappear.

Resigned, she finally sat down to the table and picked up the envelope. Frowning at herself, she stuck her thumb under the lip of the envelope, and after steeling herself, she ripped through the seal in one unflinching motion, as though she were ripping of a band-aid. But she could not stop herself from looking at the postmark date one last time.

Marjorie did not like thinking about her life from four years ago. She rarely enjoyed being reminded that she was not a native New Yorker, or that she had lived for the first fifteen years of her life in upstate New York in a small town full of people that didn't miss her. But it was this rough patch in 91' that she especially did not like to remember, and here was a letter from exactly then that had seemed to know exactly where to find her, and that scared her a little.

She abruptly pulled out the contents of the envelope much the same way she had opened it. Clutched in her hand was a small single sheet of paper folded over once. Marjorie opened it up to find to her surprise that it was a piece of hotel stationary for a place called Journey On Inn, a local bed and breakfast from her hometown. The sense of dread Marjorie had felt upon the letter's arrival almost kept her from reading further, but soon the dread was replaced by confusion, and then baffled curiosity as she read the short but cryptic message:

_Clock tower_

_137 West 30__th__ Street_

_Find the back door_

_All your answers start here._

Marjorie felt oddly insulted. True, she hadn't known what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this. It felt too much like a prank some of her NYU friends would pull. Getting her nervous with that touchy date in her past and then sending a hokey clue to get her on—a what? A scavenger hunt?

Except…Marjorie bit her lip. She had never told anyone what had happened on the exact date of March 1st, 1991.

She scanned the paper again, and turned it over. Marjorie blinked at what she saw. Just as cryptic as the message before it, a scratchy and ambiguous figure was sketched on the back of the paper with what looked like ballpoint pen. Studying it closely, Marjorie was able to discern what looked like a large animal—maybe a big cat, like a panther, from the way it crouched—but then, it also looked strangely human by the shape of its head and torso. Marjorie looked closer. It had wings.

Marjorie sat back in her seat, now at a complete loss for what to think.

* * *

"It's a conspiracy, man," Lonan was telling anyone who would listen. But because he was surrounded mostly by thoroughly smashed NYU thespians belatedly celebrating last semester's completion of a successful run of _Kiss Me Kate_, his captive audience consisted of only Marjorie and their mutual friend Rodger, who Marjorie suspected was only half-conscious. It was January 5th, 1995.

"But it's not like it was hushed up or anything," said Marjorie, ever the devil's advocate. "I saw the gargoyle story on the news."

Lonan snorted. "If you mean that piece o' biased 'Times-Square-Bigfoot' crap they pushed it off as, then yeah, you did see it on the news." Lonan was referring to the five minute segment on last night's _Nightwatch_ had displayed an amateur's photography of a blurry object seemingly rushing up the side of a building on January 3rd. The piece could have been called humorously skeptic at best, likening anyone claiming to have seen a "living gargoyle" running amuck in Times Square the urban counterpart of crazed Bigfoot fanatics. Lonan, having spent the past few days telling everyone he could about his near encounter with a giant monster while strolling down Seventh Avenue, had not been pleased.

"The point is, something _is _going on, and everyone _up there_ is freaking out about it, so they write it off as a hoax so no one is the wiser." He solemnly took a swig from his beer bottle. Marjorie considered her friend with an indulgent smile. If she hadn't had known Lonan as well as she did, she would have probably given his story more credence. However, Lonan was the kind of person who seemed to have a never ending supply of cousins who had boyfriends who had dentists who had tax brokers that aliens were always abducting or who had disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle.

"I know what I saw, and _you_," he said, tilting the neck of his bottle forcefully in her direction, "had best be more careful when you go out at night. This thing could eat you in three bites. They are out there."

"Do do, doo dooo," Rodger hummed the _X-Files_ theme song in agreement.

"Hey, don't worry about me," Marjorie said with just the right blend of humor and seriousness. "If a gargoyle comes after me in the night, I'll just remind them about how they don't really exist."

Lonan ignored her for the rest of the night.

As it turned out, Lonan would benefit from his persistence in retelling his gargoyle story over and over. A little more than a week later found Marjorie sitting across from Lonan in The Twisted Nail, a.k.a. the only "proper" pub to be found anywhere east of the Village—a small underground smoke-trap that served drinks and occasionally had bands play. Marjorie was filling in for Lonan's regular fiddle, and they had just finished an extended set that had lasted an hour longer than on the bill. Lonan, as usual, jokingly chalked it up to his good looks, but Marjorie suspected it had more to do with his righteous energy on stage.

He'd been especially cheerful—perhaps _triumphant_ was a better word—ever since _Nightwatch_ had aired the report of gargoyle-like creatures robbing MOMA and the other sightings. All day, people kept coming up to him and asking him to tell his "urban Bigfoot gargoyle story" again.

"Admit it, you have to admit it," he said across from her, beaming. "You're eating your words right about now, aren't you?"

"What words?" Marjorie asked innocently, wiping the sweat away from her forehead.

Lonan sucked in air through his teeth, eyebrows raised. "It's no use tryin' to pretend you don't remember what you said. I saw it, and now everyone else will too."

"Okay, so maybe you did see something, Lo," Marjorie said, speaking loudly to be heard over the noise in the club. "But the question you're not asking is, what?"

Lonan seemed caught off-guard by the sudden turn in conversation. "Dunno," he answered much more seriously. "Whatever it was, it was fast, heavy, and apparently has a thing for modern art," he said, referring to the report of the Eye of Odin's theft. "Also, it was scary as hell."

Marjorie smirked. "I thought you barely even saw it."

"Doesn't mean I wasn't scared."

Now it was Marjorie's turn to be surprised. "You're scared? Why?"

Lonan looked at her incredulously. "Are you kidding me? A bunch of hulking monsters are running around New York and you're asking me why it bothers me?"

Marjorie looked around the crowded pub. The band after them was beginning to tune. "We done here?" she asked Lonan. If there was any chance of having a normal conversation about this, she would much rather have it outside where it wasn't so noisy.

Minutes later they were bundled up against the winter air, deep in discussion as they carefully made their way over the thin sheets of ice that covered the streets of the East Village. "So you think they're real monsters?" Marjorie asked.

"Well, if we're going to call them real, why not monsters?" Lonan responded, not quite understanding what she meant.

"No, it's very interesting you say that," Marjorie said, struggling to explain. "Even people who buy tabloids everyday, they still react the same as everyone else does when shown something unexplainable, at least by acceptable standards. I mean, if they _really_ saw a, I don't know, if an actual alien landed on their doorstep, they'd be just as inclined to deny it was happening to them as a first instinct. That's what people do, they see something that doesn't fit with their way of looking at life, and they pretend it isn't really there."

Somewhere along the way, tiny thin snowflakes had begun to drift down from the sky. Lonan hugged his bomber jacket closer and gave her a considering look. "You've got experience with this sort o' thing, then?"

There was a long pause for which they both kept crunching through the snow, finally stopping at an empty intersection. Marjorie checked for cars as she finally answered. "When they told me my mom died, I didn't believe them."

None to the left, none to the right. She stepped forward, Lonan in her wake. "Not even when I saw her casket. And I don't think it was shock, either; it just wasn't supposed to happen like that. It was denial."

Lonan didn't say anything. Marjorie had told him about her mother years before now, but she hardly ever mentioned it otherwise.

"But, anyway," she continued briskly, "what I suppose my point is, is that some people can convince themselves on a shallow level that anything, even weird things like giant monsters, is possible, but there's a standard of normal that everyone wants to maintain. When that standard is breached, instead of accepting, they deny."

Lonan chanced a look at her again. But it was the same old Marjorie: ridiculous curly hair bouncing in step above her shoulders, happy gleam in her eye, and the good-natured smile that always rested easily on her face. "Been thinking about this a lot, have you?" he asked, relieved.

Marjorie made a non-committal noise of agreement, and they both turned the corner in the eventual direction of the subway station that would take Marjorie home. Even though she had mocked him before, Lonan had made a point ever since the Times Square sighting to walk Marjorie as far as he could whenever they were together at night. Gracefully, she never mentioned or poked fun at the particular reason _why_ he chose to do this; she was too moved by the sentiment.

"I'm just wondering how you fit in," she continued. She looked up to him and smiled. "Are you accepting for real? Allowing monsters in your world?"

Lonan didn't answer. They spent the rest of the walk in companionable silence, Marjorie enjoying the snowfall. As for Lonan, his mind was on other things.

* * *

Of course, it was only after that night that it was revealed that robots had been behind the sightings and MOMA theft. Even after the second, more publicized sighting in Times Square in February, Lonan never brought the subject of monsters, mechanical or otherwise, back up.

Marjorie tapped her fingers across her table, which wobbled under the slight weight. She looked out her kitchen window to the magnificent view she had of Manhattan across the East River.

Besides, she reasoned, Lonan would never do this kind of thing to her. Rodger, maybe, and she could see Sally convincing Timber it would be fun to mess with her head. But that also seemed unlikely. After all, she told some of her friends about her mother's accident, but she had never mentioned that it had happened on March 1st.

Even if she had, she couldn't think any of them would be so cruel.

The sun drifted lazily across the floor and to the wall, and Marjorie still sat, pondering. Trains passed over her head, making the glasses in the sink rattle faintly each time. Finally she looked over at the clock. It was now a little past two.

"137 West 30th street," she muttered aloud. She read the message one final time. _All your answers start here._

What the hell. She needed to get out of the apartment anyway.


	2. Chapter Two

**Fairytale of New York**

**Chapter Two: A Discovery**

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews! They help me out and boost my energy to like, 500%. Also, I'd like to mention that I am now in China, and therefore running 13 hours ahead of my normal time. Internet connection is not as reliable (heaven knows how many times I've attempted to upload this thing without success), so while I intend to write up a storm (when I'm not completely exhausted), I might not be able to post any of it until I get back from the states.

* * *

Though she had tramped through many different parts of the city, Marjorie's wanderings had never led her down this particular street. There was nothing particularly special about it, Marjorie thought as she paced slowly up West 30th, looking for 137. The street was lined high, wide buildings and the narrow two-lane street seemed to be used mostly for parking rather than traffic. It was unusually quiet for being mere blocks away from Madison Square Garden.

Marjorie counted addresses on the opposite side of the street. Excitement building despite herself, Marjorie hastily looked both ways before crossing 6th Avenue. She immediately started counting again. She was nearing the 100's now, it would most likely be by the end of the block….

There it was. Marjorie stopped and gazed up at 137 West 30th street, mouth agape; it was easily the tallest building on the entire block, and the most elegant. Marjorie titled her head back to take in the sight of the high gothic windows and intricate stonework, her gaze traveling upwards to rest finally upon…

Marjorie blinked. How about that. A giant clock tower face topped 137 West 30th street and towered above those passing down below. She brought her gaze down to across the street, where a steady stream of people filed in and out of the doors. She watched for a few moments, unsure of what to do. A part of her had expected something to jump out at her, an obvious indication that someone had meant for her to see, something explaining why she was meant to be there.

Waiting on a slow bus to pass by on the road, Marjorie crossed the street and tried to look as casual as possible. The windows were too high up to look through from the street, but she could guess from the rate of people coming and going that the inside was a place of bustling activity.

She paused next to the door, and considered it. Should she go in? It couldn't hurt, she supposed, but what would she do if it was a private building? What could she possibly say if someone demanded why she was there without sounding like an idiot? _Uh, hi, I got an anonymous letter saying I would find unspecified answers here? Is this the right place?_

As she was looking at the doors, a dark haired woman stepped out and took off briskly in the opposite direction. Realizing it was now or never, Marjorie stepped forward after her. "Uh, Ma'am?"

The woman stopped and turned around. She was young and attractive and dressed casually in blue jeans, the expression on her face betraying the fact that she was not used to hearing strangers call her "ma'am" just yet. Marjorie felt even more embarrassed. "Could you tell me what this building is?" she asked.

"It's the 23rd precinct house, among other things," the woman replied bemusedly. "You're not a tourist, are you? You lost?"

"No, no," Marjorie rushed to reply. She hated the "T" word. "It's just a really beautiful building is all. I was just curious."

The woman looked up at the clock tower with an appreciative smile. "Yeah, I've always thought so."

Marjorie became very relieved that the woman was friendly and didn't seem to mind talking to her. "Is it really just a precinct house? It seems so big."

The woman was brought back into the conversation. "Well, yeah. We share it with a piece of city hall and a library, too. Even with all that room, you'd be surprised at how crowded it can get."

"Oh." Marjorie looked back at the building, more curious than ever. "Alright. Thanks a lot."

The woman smiled. "No prob," she said as she turned back around and continued on her way. Marjorie waited until the woman was out of sight, and looked back up at the tower with a frown. She still had no idea what the letter meant. She couldn't think of any reason why she'd need to go to a police station or city hall. And what was she even supposed to be looking for, anyway?

Feeling oddly let down, Marjorie finally turned away from the building and continued on her way towards Central Park.

* * *

In the days that passed, the letter was filed away in her bookcase, and eventually put from her mind. She didn't tell anyone about the letter or what it said. The circumstances involved, she decided, would sound too interesting and mysterious to any of her friends, and she did not want any of them to take it upon themselves to encourage her to investigate. She had other things to think about.

Like this month's rent, for example. She was a bit behind where she usually was each month, and if she expected to earn enough to pay both for her apartment and groceries, it would be best not to procrastinate.

She spent the rest of the majority of her weekend busking in Central Park. As she had started late that Saturday, it took her a while to get the measure of the crowds and her daily earnings suffered for it—but Sunday turned out to be a fantastic day for busking—excellent weather, big (and cheerful) crowds, and a happy energy she was able to maintain in her music all day—and she more than compensated for her lost time Saturday.

Surprisingly, Marjorie's good luck carried over the next few days, as well. Everywhere she played, her music seemed to carry further and higher and sweeter than everything else, and people seemed more inclined to listen, leaving whatever loose change they had with them in Marjorie's fiddle case, spring in step and a smile on their faces as they went their own way.

For Marjorie, busking was a volatile venture; the fruits of her labors were not always constant. She could play all hours of the day on the busiest street corner in Manhattan and still come away with less than if she had played for one hour along the right shady path on the at the right time of day. Perhaps it was not the most dependable source of income when compared a job with a fixed salary, and there had been several times when she had been hard pressed to make ends meet, but Marjorie wouldn't have traded it for the world.

Fortunately for her, she'd had nothing but practice in the four years since she'd come to New York, and she was able to support herself entirely by busking, only taking the odd job here or there when absolutely necessary.

This week had been especially lucrative, so much so that come that Friday Marjorie had earned enough to cover this month's rent and living expenses, with plenty left over. Though these lucrative periods were not unknown to her, the delight of her success coupled with the unusually fair weather had all but replaced all the unease surrounding the mysterious letter.

Ironically, it was this bout of distracting good fortune that would drive Marjorie to return to the mysterious letter and its cryptic message.

* * *

Saturday, April 22nd found Marjorie and Rodger idly wandering through her favorite Goodwill on West 79th street.

"What exactly are you looking for, again?" Rodger asked, contemptuously fingering a pair of mauve satin parachute pants hanging from the men's rack.

"Could be anything," Marjorie replied while digging through a bin of used T-shirts. She was determined not to let Rodger's distaste annoy her. "I'm just shopping for something interesting."

Rodger made a derisive noise in the back of his throat, letting it be known just what he thought of _Marjorie's_ idea of shopping. Rodger worked as a manager for a designer's fashion clothing store just off 4th, and as such, he not only earned a ridiculous paycheck each week, but an equally ridiculous clothing allowance. If Marjorie hadn't long ago decided that designer labels was for the birds, she might have been inclined to hate him. As it was, she just ignored him.

"You never know what you'll find," she patiently explained again, moving her attentions to the green section shirt rack. "Last time I found this great old shirt from The Pogue's 1988 tour—"

"I thought you said you had money to burn this weekend," Rodger interrupted. "Why not treat yourself to something, I don't know…._not_ pre-used?"

"Because some of us in this world still resist the overwhelming mindset of the consuming masses," Marjorie replied, struggling to remain unbothered and losing. "I _told_ you this is what I meant by shopping. If you're bored, you don't have to stay."

"If I want you in the music pit come musical rehearsals, I do," Rodger shot back immediately. "If I left it up to you, you'd never get to the auditions on time."

"Whine, whine, whine," Marjorie muttered, moving away from the clothes and on to the nickel bin. Rodger often directed a great majority of musicals and shows put on at various times in the year at NYU, and had come to insist that she be a part of every show. Of course, Rodger was such a demanding control freak that he had all but driven off a majority of all the musicians NYU had to offer, leaving him with slim pickings when it came to talented people who could actually stand work with him. But he was a good director, and the shows he worked on reflected it.

"You promised, remember," Rodger continued. "And I have to be there on time, so we're leaving soon. Right?"

"What are you aiming for this semester?" Marjorie asked, prolonging their inevitable departure. "More Rodgers and Hammerstein?" She moved a troop of bent and broken plastic soldiers and a tangle of foux-silk scarves, hunting for treasure. The best stuff always sifted to the bottom…

"Believe it or not, I'm doing a student produced thing. This literary major put together a rock opera."

"Oh yeah?" Chipped wooden blocks and plastic bric-a-brac. "Didn't think you went in for those. And what's a fiddle doing in a rock opera, anyway?"

"Actually, I think you'll really like it." Rodger moved away from a rack of used sport coats he'd been sneering at and came to join her at the nickel bin. "It's not really a rock opera in the traditional sense. The musicians wander around stage, and there's at least one of them playing for the entire time. And since there's not many I know offhand that could handle that, you—"

"Hang on a sec," Marjorie interrupted. After several strong tugs, she pulled what she'd been struggling with the last few seconds out of the bin.

"Wow," Marjorie said.

"That's some impressive junk, alright," Rodger said, bemused.

It was a video camera. Or perhaps it was a very ancient ancestor of the modern video camera, a dinosaur of the audiovisual family, the last of its kind. It was bulky and square, with a solid handgrip coming out from the bottom of it rather than a strap to the side; Marjorie inspected it and found that apart from an extremely thick and dusty lens, the camera was completely encased in a shell of white plastic, with five grimy buttons lining one side. There wasn't a viewing screen; it was the sort of camera you had too look through an eyepiece and have glued to your face in order to see what you were filming.

"They're selling it for a nickel," Rodger was saying. Marjorie was having trouble listening; she was looking through the eyepiece to discover that it tinged the world an odd shade of green. "It probably doesn't work. No, it definitely wouldn't work…"

Marjorie turned the camera over and over in her hands. It was archaic, worn, awkward, and entirely unnecessary. Marjorie was enchanted.

She was so pleased with the camera that she hardly cared how Rodger rolled his eyes at the check out counter, or how often he would shake his head from time to time as they walked twelve blocks towards a tiring afternoon of seemingly endless auditions.

* * *

Marjorie spent a majority of her time that week with the camera. If she wasn't fiddling with it or pretending to film bemused and uncomfortable tourists with it, she had it next to her in her bag, or resting in her lap as she busked in the park.

Marjorie couldn't explain it. She didn't know machines, but everything indicated that the camera had gone the way of the dinosaur and was entirely beyond use. But something inside her seemed to think otherwise. Often she would see something interesting—performance art in the park or sunlight dancing on the glass towers uptown—and she would pick up the dinocam and press the record button, without realizing it. As the week progressed, it happened with greater and greater frequency, and each time it happened, Marjorie would remind herself not to do it again, because it was obvious the camera didn't work—only for it to happen all over again.

"Where did you get that?" Lonan asked her. "You a movie director now?"

Marjorie suddenly came back to herself. She'd been staring at Lonan through the dinocam, filled with noting but the desire to capture that look, that energy of the music he made and was filled with, and now he had come to sit with her at the Twisted Nail and she was holding up this clunky camera in his face with no explanation. She fought down a blush as she answered, "Hey, Lo. I just got it."

She handed it over to him, and he inspected it interestedly. "Cool," he said, holding it up to his eye. "Give us a smile, Marjorie....hey, it's not…" Lonan held the camera out and scrutinized it worriedly. "M…did you pay a lot for this?"

Marjorie smiled slightly. "Well, I know a nickel is five whole cents, but I think I'm tough enough to survive the loss."

Lonan blinked at her. "You bought a broken camera? On purpose?"

"For a nickel," Marjorie reminded him.

Lonan stared, and shook his head with a smile. "You're the weirdest girl I know, you know that?"

"No, I didn't know that. That's excellent."

"Being weird?"

"Yes. Weird means interesting, and interesting is not boring."

Lonan smiled. "Yeah. You're the furthest thing from boring I can think of." And then it happened.

_It must have been the smile_, Marjorie would think later and not know why. But she loved that smile, not straight but crooked to one side of his face, warm and cheerful and roguish. She felt her heart skip a beat as the camera shook to life in her hands.

It grew warm and gave a sudden whirring noise and a series of loud clicks. Marjorie could feel the movement of ancient mechanisms hidden inside the plastic, and Lonan could hear it too, and he leaned over and touched the camera—

--it stopped. Both of them looked up at one another, and then looked down at the still camera. "Guess that was…a fluke?" Lonan said after a moment.

"Guess so…," Marjorie answered. But all she could think about was that jolt of warmth that seemed to fill her when Lonan smiled, and how something had seem to stir inside the thick white plastic—like an animal from hibernation.

And that was all she could think about. The dinocam remained on her mind every waking moment—she could never hope to explain it, not even to herself. Rationally, she told herself that the whole thing was inconsequential, without meaning or relevance. But there was a feeling that had taken over her, a powerful feeling that somehow the dinocam's sudden gasp of life (_don't call it _alive, the rational part scolded her) and even the arrival of the bizarre letter held magnificent importance that was obscured from her understanding. Damn it all if she knew how or why, but the two events surrounded by a charged air of mystery presentiment that would not allow her to dismiss them.

* * *

Looking back on it, Marjorie wasn't sure how she ended up wandering through Central Park the next night. There were certain places you weren't supposed to go in New York City after dark—especially if you were a young woman—but Marjorie had never been afraid of Central Park, and had never bothered to wonder why she should be.

The dinocam was clutched in her hand as she walked idly down the path. She'd just left a gig on 5th playing second fiddle (in the literal sense; the original fiddler had shown up five minutes to show time, but Marjorie had felt like sticking around anyway), and the park path had seemed like a good enough route to follow to her station. As she walked she turned it over and over in her hands, her pace slowing ad then finally stopping altogether.

"But it wasn't a fluke," she said muttered. "Something happened."

The path was deserted, lit by a dwindling string of small lampposts. Marjorie held the camera to her face and looked at the world.

"I know you're not just a broken camera," she said, her words driven and sure. "I knew it but I didn't know it, the minute I saw you. It's why I bought you."

Through the lens of the dinocam, the world was dark and empty looking, the lamps reduced to dim green pulses in the blackness. Marjorie remembered the small warmth and noise she had felt stir in her hands, and cupped her hands around the bulk of the plastic in a gentle grasp.

"Show me," she started whispering. "C'mon, show me why. Show me why I found you…"

In the depths of the dinocam, Marjorie thought she could feel something tense and stretch, like an animal giving a small yawn. "Wake up," she said, and it did.

The world lit up, and Marjorie realized with a surprised laugh that her sweet, fuddy-duddy dinocam had night-vision. She peered through dinocam and saw deep into the darkness—now transparent green—and could see the winding path up ahead, and impressions of the lake further on. Happily, she whirled around and took in the rest of the park. Unseen in the usual darkness, Marjorie could see the trees swaying in the wind as if they were dancers to a silent waltz, and above and beyond them, though it was so far from where she was standing, she recognized the turrets of Belvedere castle as shadows before the dark sky, and above and beyond that…

"Stars?" Marjorie asked disbelievingly. "In New York?" She tore her gaze from the eyepiece and checked the night sky seemingly empty, the city lights bleaching it's black to a washed out navy.

Heart racing (but not with fear. Excitement? Joy?), she held the eyepiece to her left eye and watched the sky with her right. Then she closed her right eye and opened her left. Within the world through the dinocam, stars did not only shine, they blazed. There seemed to be more of them now that she looked again. They filled the sky, and not even on the clearest of nights back when she lived in the hills had she seen this many.

Marjorie was utterly swept away. There wasn't enough room to take in the sky from the tiny eyepiece; she scanned the sky, craning her neck as much as she could to see it all. She'd taken an astronomy course in freshman year for a semester, but all she'd learned was mostly forgotten. Cassiopeia, that was the only one she could really remember, and there it was, hanging over Belvedere Castle.

Marjorie paused. Something above the castle had caught her eye, but it wasn't a star. It had looked more like a shadow. A moving shadow…

Marjorie started walking forward in an attempt to see better, but almost as she thought it the camera zoomed in. Marjorie would have most certainly have stopped and given this new development her full attention, but something caught her eye again.

Impossibly, it seemed as though she were looking up at Belvedere from very nearby, as if she were standing on the rock the turtles used to sun themselves and not nearly half a mile down the path. Through dinocam she saw the dark shadow of the stone under the starlit sky—somewhere in the back of her mind she marveled at how this could not possibly be happening—when something on the towers moved.

It was visible for only seconds, though she had been looking at it without realizing it for much longer. It had been so still before that when she saw it Marjorie thought for a wild moment that the stone was coming to life just like the dinocam, but then she could make out the shape of person climbing to the top of the turret. When it had reached the top it sprang without warning from the tallest tower in a lithe, graceful motion before becoming lost to the shadows. Marjorie almost dropped the camera in alarm, but then she caught sight of it again, swooping up on giant wings—giant _wings_—directly over her head—

Marjorie pulled the dinocam away with a gasp. She was back on the path under the glaring lamps and starless sky, not a soul in the world around and Belvedere Castle was too far away to see in the dark. She remained perfectly still and strained her ears, but could detect no sounds—no beating of wings, no avian cry. She didn't want to tear her eyes away from the direction of Belvedere Castle, but one foot took a step behind her, and the other one followed, and she trusted her feet to keep up the pace.

* * *

The phone was ringing.

Lonan pushed himself up in bed, sleep clinging to his eyes like rough cotton. Squinting, he could make out the dim green glow of his alarm clock in the darkness; it was nearly three in the morning.

The phone was still insistently ringing. With an annoyed groan, he pulled himself towards the side of his bed and allowed himself to collapse nearly half-way off of it as to reach the phone on the floor next to his bed. This had better be good; he'd only been asleep for an hour.

"Hello?" he answered. There wasn't an answer, but Lonan thought he could make out the sound of someone breathing very quickly, as if they'd run a long way and were out of breath. "Hello?"

"Lonan," came the voice of Marjorie. Lonan sat up, instantly concerned; her voice sounded shaky and small. "Can I ask you a question that—that sounds out of context—"

"Marjorie? M, is something wrong?"

"—can I—can I just ask you something without explaining why I'm asking it, and can you answer what you really think without wondering why I'm asking it—"

"Marjorie, slow down," Lonan told her, now wide awake. "What's wrong? Where are you? It's late—"

"Can you?" Marjorie's voice cracked, her pitch high and almost panicked. "I need to ask a question Lonan and I need to know you can answer it. Please."

Lonan didn't know what the devil this was about, but he knew Marjorie, and she wouldn't call him like this if it wasn't important. He just hoped he could get an answer out of her later on. "Okay. What's the question?" he asked softly.

"You have to promise—no matter what I ask—that you think about it, and give it your best answer without wondering why I'm asking—what it has to do with me—without any of that going into it. Can you?"

"…I can," Lonan said, feeling as though his words had heavy significance and not knowing why. "I promise."

"Do you remember when we talked about monsters? About accepting them in your world? That's not the question I'm ultimately asking, by the way."

Lonan was relieved to hear her voice seemed calmer. "I remember."

There was a long pause. "This is my question," she said. There was an even longer pause. Lonan could hear her breathing through the phone; it seemed to him that she was marshalling her courage before she spoke.

"If you were given the choice…if you saw something extraordinary, something that you never believe could happen, and if you were given the choice between a safe life without it, by forgetting it, even if it were wonderful and, and terrifying…or living in a world where that all changed, where anything you ever dreamed of might be true, but it would be…it wouldn't be pretend anymore, where there might be monsters…what would you choose?"

Lonan didn't speak. He was eager to know what this was all about and equally worried about how any of this mattered with Marjorie and why she sounded so desperate. But he had promised.

"I…" he started, then stopped. He thought, and began again. As he spoke the slight Irish lilt in his voice grew stronger, fed by memory. "I remember the stories my grandpa used to tell me from Ireland. All the barrows, and of faerieland, and all those things. Magic, ye know. I believed that they were real, but only in Ireland. Growing up here, nothing was magic. It wasn't around."

He waited, but Marjorie didn't say anything. He listened to that silence linked between them, and soon the words came easily and Lonan realized he wanted to know what his answer was as much as Marjorie did. "I always wanted to go and find a piece of it. Back in Ireland. You always want to find it, don't ye? But you stop looking for it eventually. I think…If I had had the chance to see it, to find it and know it for myself…I know I would've taken it, Marjorie. Back then, I know I would've."

It began to rain outside. Lonan heard the sound of the water on the window, and at the phone booth eight blocks away from Central Park Marjorie could hear it too, but both heard that silence over the phone more than anything else.

"And now?" Marjorie asked. "What would you do now?"

"…I don't know," Lonan said. She didn't say anything. "Is that what you needed, Marjorie?"

"Yes." Her voice didn't sound frantic or shaky anymore, but Lonan wasn't sure it sounded calm. If it sounded like anything, it sounded far away. "Thank you, Lonan. I'm sorry for waking you up."

"S'alright," Lonan said. As mysterious as this whole business was, he knew that he'd probably never find out what it was all about. And somehow, that didn't seem to matter. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight." She hung up.

Lonan gave the phone a thoughtful look, and returned it to its cradle. Lying in bed, his thoughts strayed to Marjorie and Ireland, of his grandfather's magic and monsters of Manhattan until the rain lulled him into a contented sleep.

* * *

A/N 2: Some cool trufax: the 23rd precinct of NYC used to be on 30th, and had the outside façade of a castle. They've since moved elsewhere and of course never really had a clock tower, but it's neat to see in real life and I'm the author of this fanfiction so there.


	3. Chapter Three

**Fairytale of New York**

**Chapter Three: Of Complications and Covert Operations**

A/N: Thanks all, for getting this far into the story. I know that so far this story has mostly centered around my original characters (and of course, they'll all still be very important as the story continues), but from this point on the characters you know and love from the show (and comics! Go check them out!) will also share center stage. So keep reading, pretty please!

* * *

It was a disaster.

The victims were divided evenly. There were those frantically rushing with all their desperate energy, still attempting to make things right even in light of how obviously doomed their efforts were: jumping to orders when given, carrying them out with a sort of panicked but determined air. Then there were those that were already lost: lethargic, hopeless, eyes dead and strength sapped. Wearily they lay over the floor and slumped over one another, groaning at each prolonged minute, longing for the end. It was only the third rehearsal.

"What do you mean, _'We haven't blocked this scene yet'_? Were you even _here _Friday?!" In the center of the chaos and despair was Rodger, his continence nothing less than a furious general rallying his all-but-defeated troops for one last charge into battle. His energy was intense and his vision was clear, but if he was a general he was not a very good one at the moment, for he could not see how his frustration was the very thing destroying what little enthusiasm his troops had left. It was going to be a very bloody defeat.

The only one untouched by the vast amount of frustration that saturated the very air within the theatre was Marjorie. Of all the actors and musicians and stage crew gathered there that day, she was not the only one whom hadn't invoked Roger's wraith, but that could not the reason she seemed so unaffected; sturdier stagehands and thespians than she were there tonight, wilting. She sat easily in a cushioned theater seat on the eleventh row, eyes open and posture relaxed, as if the brutal display on the stage in front of her was all part of a performance she was attending. Those who didn't know her might have chalked it up to what little they'd heard: _she's worked with this lunatic before_, _they're friends_, or even _she must be a professional_.

Rodger bravely fought on, but finally it became clear to even him that the battle was lost. "Alright, enough," he said after a calming breath, much to the relief of everyone present. "Enough for tonight. But we're back at this on Tuesday, and if everyone doesn't have the blocking down for at _least_ the first act…" He let his sentence drift away ominously rather than specifying what terrible thing would happen; it was a wise decision, as imagining anything worse than the last few hours was beyond the abilities of everyone there.

Unlike other nights when there would be many that lingered and stayed longer to chat or prepare for the next night of rehearsal, everyone quickly filed out, eager to get away. Within less than five minutes the theatre was empty save Rodger, darkly gathering his script and cue sheet, and Marjorie, still sitting in her seat. She spent a few moments studiously watching Rodger, and then nodded, as if she'd just had an assessment confirmed, stood up and made her way towards him.

"Rough goings, huh?" she asked after a moment of standing patiently beside him with no response. "Worried?"

Rodger made a scoffing sound that was neither a confirmation nor a denial. So it was very serious after all, Marjorie thought. Perhaps now wouldn't be a good time to ask—but if not now, when would she ever?

"I'd like to borrow a costume from the prop room," she said in an even, casual voice. "Do you think you could let me in?"

Rodger stopped shoving notes into his bag and gave her an incredulous stare. "Of course not," he answered with a tone that suggested she had just asked him to set his wallet on fire. "The costumes belong to NYU, and you're not even a student. I can't just let you take something—"

"I just want to borrow something," Marjorie interrupted. "I don't want a flashy costume; I want a disguise. I'd go shop for one myself but I need it for something I'm doing tonight, and it can't wait…" That wasn't exactly true; as far as she knew there wasn't a deadline for the thing she had in mind, but there was a building urgency growing inside her ever since last night. The plan had been brewing in her head all day.

"A disguise?" Rodger frowned in puzzlement, notes and papers still half strewn along the floor, forgotten. "What on earth are you up to, Marjorie?"

"Nothing important," Marjorie said, trying to brush it off as casually as she could. "You have the keys, right?" Marjorie continued. "You _could_ let me in if you wanted to?"

"What's this about a disguise?" Rodger insisted.

Marjorie shrugged. "I was looking through my clothes today when I realized I don't own much in the way of simple, plain clothing," she explained, gesturing towards her outfit today, which happened to be a bright Peruvian alpaca pullover and studded denim skirt the color of a yield sign. Marjorie didn't think that Rodger, infamous for dressing like The Artist Formally Known As in _Purple Rain_ when the fancy struck him, had the right to wince like he did.

"True," he agreed in a slow, considering voice. "But my question was more along the lines of, 'Why do you _need_ a disguise?'"

Marjorie was prepared. "Do you remember that one time when you had your History of European Theatre final, but you hadn't prepared for it and all you would tell me was it was because something happened to you the day before the test, but you wouldn't tell me what?"

Rodger seemed torn between looking uncomfortable and looking amused. "Um. Yeah."

"And so you asked me to show up five minutes into your final and pretend I was your disturbed mental patient sister that had somehow followed you to school so that your professor would let you out and let you finish your test later so you could take me home?"

"And you we're an excellent crazy person," he said fervently. "Really great. Professor Rhinebeck gave me three whole days before he had me come back."

Marjorie diplomatically chose to let that one slide. "My point is, even though I didn't know what kept you from preparing—and still to this day do not know—I did not pry. I simply helped because I, caring friend that I am, realized how dire your crisis was. Above and beyond expectations, I'd say. Did I demand any explanation before consenting to give you that help? No, though any reasonable person would certainly agree that—"

"Okay, alright, enough, I get it!" Rodger broke in quickly. "Alright. Fine. You could have just told me I owed you one," he said in the manner of someone who has just been outmaneuvered in chess by a move they really should have seen coming. He cast a quick glance throughout the cavernous empty theater, as though someone might be eavesdropping behind the seats. "But tell me one thing: what you're planning. It's not illegal, is it?"

Marjorie opened her mouth, closed it, and considered. "It's sneaky," she said, choosing her words carefully. "Sneaky, but not illegal. Technically. Maybe. I think."

Sighing, Rodger turned towards the direction of the prop room and waved gloomily for her to follow.

It took less time then she thought. With Rodger's help, Marjorie chose a bland blue blouse and a pair of unornamented and slightly worn blue jeans from among the brightly colored chaos of the NYU costume menagerie in little less then half an hour. "If I'dve known you wanted something as boring as this, I wouldn't have bothered objecting," Rodger remarked as she pulled her old sneakers back on. "Don't worry about bringing it back; I doubt anyone would miss it."

Marjorie hoped he was right and that it looked so ordinary and boring no one would look at her twice in it. Hopefully no one would look at her once. She left her fiddle safely tucked inside Rodger's locker with his permission. It was easily the most precious thing she'd ever owned in her life, and she didn't want to risk it by taking it on her secret and insane mission. Just as she had told Rodger, she wasn't sure if sneaking around a police department was something you could be punished for, and she really rather not find out.

* * *

At 7:12 p.m., the wind increased in energetic bursts along 30th street, plucking newspapers from the ground to spin them about in the air like cheap orange wrapping tissue in the brutal setting sun. People briskly walked the street without giving the clock tower a glance as she menacingly glowered down, and Marjorie stood rooted to the corner across the street gazing up at the clock, busy marveling at how quickly human resolve could change from a pillar of fortitude into nothing more than a shaky house of cards.

Looking up into that stern clock face, Marjorie could feel herself being pulled in two directions at once: The feelings and events that had plagued her mind for more than a week and a half urged her to move forward with her plan, yet the complete ridiculousness of the whole scenario kept her feet firmly rooted on the spot, and for the first time in a long time Marjorie felt lost.

"The Universe has a funny way of keeping things in order," a particularly dreamy friend of Marjorie's once told her a few years ago when she was still fresh in the city. "People call it coincidence." Marjorie had agreed completely, and had even written it down somewhere. But both she and her friend had missed a very important part of this particular theory: the Universe keeps things in order because it has to, and whenever our lives become more orderly because of it, the Universe receives a nice tingly feeling of satisfaction of a job neatly done.

However, if these orderly coincidences of the Universe in any way complicate, frustrate, or make a tangled mess of our lives, the Universe derives such an exceedingly larger amount of pleasure that it's far more likely to happen than anything else.

And because it seemed that the Universe had taken a particular interest as of late in making Marjorie's life unusually complicated, Marjorie should not have been as surprised as she was when the hand that tapped her lightly on the shoulder belonged to the young, attractive woman she had seen leaving the 23rd precinct just a little under two weeks ago. "Well, hello again," she said with a warm, teasing smile.

_She recognizes me_, Marjorie thought, her stomach jumping up to her throat.

"If you're trying to get the time, you're out of luck," she was saying. "Hasn't worked for years now."

Genuine confusion dissolved Marjorie's sudden inability to speak. "I'm sorry?"

The woman paused and gave Marjorie a second look. "The clock tower. I thought that's what you were looking at."

"Oh, no, I was…" Marjorie was struck by an idea. "…I was looking for that library you mentioned before. I've heard it's good."

"Oh, that. You can get there from the building over there, the one next to the station…" Marjorie was so relieved that the woman believed her she almost missed the rest of the directions she was giving her. "…and up the stairs. I've actually been there a few times; it's not bad."

Marjorie quickly glanced at the high building next the 23rd precinct. The buildings were so closely placed together that it wasn't possible to tell if they connected on the inside or not, but the highest story of the building came very close to the level of the clock tower. If they were connected, perhaps she wouldn't have to go through the police station at all…

"What about the clock tower?" Marjorie asked without thinking.

"I—excuse me?" the woman asked, and Marjorie, wondering if she had imagined it, noticed that the woman's voice had suddenly become tense for a second.

"You said that it didn't work anymore," Marjorie backtracked in what she hoped was a casual, innocent voice, as if she wasn't planning to go up and see for herself. "If it's not keeping time anymore, does that mean that you can go up there and see?" Inwardly she was starting to panic; she'd just been trying to find out a little more about the clock tower, but she realized that even mentioning it at all had been a mistake.

"…No," the woman said, giving Marjorie a look a searching look. "It's too rundown. Too dangerous for anyone to go up there."

Marjorie noticed her hand was trembling slightly, and hid it in her jeans pocket. She wasn't afraid, but tensely nervous, as if she were giving a performance on stage: it seemed odd to have such a strong impression around a person she'd barely met, but her intuition told her to be especially guarded with this woman. Marjorie gave a sigh that she hoped sounded genuine, and turned back to look up at the clock tower mournfully. "Oh, that's a shame."

Marjorie sensed that the woman was about to say something else, but another voice rang from down the street. "Hey, detective!"

Marjorie looked in the direction of the voice to see a tall, good-looking man with a trench coat tucked under his arm, leaning against a classic-looking red car that would have made James Dean jealous. "Elisa! You coming? Captain says to get a move on…"

Marjorie turned back to the woman in time to see the annoyed look that she flashed in his direction. "You're a detective?" she asked, a jolt of unpleasant surprise squeezing her chest.

The woman nodded with a wry smile, and lifted the red leather of her jacket to reveal a polished badge resting just over her heart.

"Elisa! C'mon, Maza!"

"Alright, Matt, I hear you. And get off my car!" The woman looked back at her as she made to cross the street towards her partner. "Just up the stairs. You can't miss it."

"Thanks," Marjorie heard herself over the dim drone that had started to ring in her ears. "Have…fun," she added lamely.

She took her hand from her pocket (still shaking, but not as badly), and took slow measured steps to the doors of the building the detective had pointed out. She reached the other side of the street just as the car was pulling away, and watched it leave out of the corner of her eye, wondering if the woman was doing the same thing.

* * *

She took the hall that the detective had described, found the staircase, and entered the library without delay, only dimly aware that as the adrenaline in her system slowed, her hands were completely steady.

_Find the back door_. It was the mantra, flowing through her mind without a conscious thought; _find the back door, find the back door._

She began walking through the shelves with purpose and expectation. And because of this, perhaps, she was not surprised when she found a second set of stairs tucked away in the furthest corner of the library, or the door that lead to another stairwell that went up for three floors, well beyond where the library ended.

At the top there was a thick, heavy looking door painted a dour shade of grey. It was the kind of door that people put up in areas that were never really supposed to be unlocked. _Find the back door_, the mantra calmly drummed in her heartbeat. _Find the door that will unlock your answers, here the answers find the door unlocked, the back door answers… _The handle resisted at first, but suddenly opened easily. It led to a tiled, well-lit hallway empty but for an odd filing cabinet. Painted on the side—PROPERTY OF NYPD 23RD DPT.

Not nearby, but sounds started drifting out in the hall where Marjorie stood perfectly still, trying to think of what to do next. She lightly darted to the corner of the hall, and peeked around the walls; another hall empty of people, ending with a dingy window with a view of the darkening sky. There were no more stairways. This was as high as she got.

Marjorie suddenly felt as if she'd been shaken awake, and blinked in the fluorescence. She hefted her quilted bag higher over her shoulder and kept quiet, listening. The bag had been a present from a friend last Christmas, hand-stitched from old Victorian pillow covers and a discarded set of kid's rocket-ship pajamas. Inside of it were the dinocam, her flashy clothes, and a letter that promised the answer to a mystery. What it really did, though, was create a mystery and string her along like a kite tail in the wind—

Marjorie shook the thought from her head. That figure with wings, that vision through the dinocam—it hadn't created _that_. There was something too this, and if she'd just pick a damn door and _stop wavering_—

Down the hall, an old door creaked open and muted sounds of discussion and footsteps drifted towards her. It wasn't a stab of panic that caused her to open the nearest door and to quietly slip inside; it was quickness and necessity and relief that finally something had happened to help her make up her mind.

Brisk sounding shoes went by as swiftly as they'd entered the hall and as swiftly as she'd closed the door. She was somewhere dark, in a custodian closet maybe, and her heart was beating more and more quickly. There was a tense thread of anticipation throughout her body, and she was quite surprised to suddenly realize just how badly she wanted the answers the letter promised. Not only what it was all about—it's connection to the figure in Central Park, the other sightings—not only that but something else she couldn't put a name to. It was as if as much as her eyes began adjusting to the darkness of the closed room, using the small but increasingly stronger light to give shape and form to the objects hidden around her, her mind was too beginning to touch vague ideas in the dark and discern their shapes, the excitement jumping into her heart.

_Back-door-back-door,_ her heart pounded as she looked up. Or perhaps it beat, _answ-ers-answ-ers_. Without hesitation, she reached out and pulled down the folding door she was certain that had been there a moment ago in the dark.

She cautiously made her way up the ladder, savoring every moment of discovery as she went; somewhere the Universe prided itself on another tidy job.

It was completely silent, the still blazing orange light of the sun striking the high-reaching beams supporting the top of the tower, glinting off the dust-covered gears and mechanisms of the clock that sat motionless in the center of the room. Marjorie climbed off the ladder and onto the stone floor, wide eyes sweeping the surprisingly large space and then narrowing in puzzlement. She had expected gears and dust and probably even mice in a space like this…but a kitchen?

And a rather good one, considering. There were cupboards, a small refrigerator, and what appeared to be a hot plate caked in grease with an encrusted spatula, as if someone had been using it as a stove. Not only that; a short distance away there was a battered table and mismatched wooden chairs with a pile of books stacked on it. Marjorie noticed some of the books had small white plastic strips on them; they belonged to the library. There was even an old TV set, and before it a decaying armchair, stuffing peeking out from the threadbare coverlet. Did someone used to live here, Marjorie wondered, or were they still living here? Marjorie cast another uneasy glance about the clock tower. There wasn't a sound; she was completely alone. However, all musings about the inside of the clock tower were at once abandoned when she caught sight of the stone staircase, leading up to the open glass door of the clock face.

The dying, blazing sun set still crept in at the top, and Marjorie at once could almost see before her eyes the city line stretching out before her with the sun painting it the color of a tangerine, the windows within the tallest towers already gleaming like fireflies. She had to see it for herself.

Unease concerning the strange hideaway forgotten, she started up the stairs, struggling to get the dinocam free of her bag as she went. She had just managed to pull it out of the bag just as she reached the door-sized panel of the clock face when her heart rammed into her ribs, her hands shook and dropped the bag, fear coursing through her body like an electric jolt—they were _here_—she was surrounded—

—by statues. "Sh-sheesh," Marjorie gasped, massaging her heart. "Y'know, if I manage not having a heart attack by the end of today, it would be really great." The stone creatures perched all around the clock face's balcony made no response to her words—which sounded so small and weak in the high wind above the city, she almost didn't hear it herself. For a moment she had been brought back to last night in Central Park…she rubbed at her eyes and smiled bashfully.

Still leaning against the clock face, Marjorie brought the dinocam to her face and looked. Nothing so grand as the night in Central Park happened; the brilliant orange of the sky was fading into a sea green in the lens of the camera, the statues were motionless stone.

Marjorie bit her lip. There was something here she was supposed to find. Last night she had seen something seemingly out of urban legend, and here she was, face to face with a stone representation of the monsters that had been sighted by several people…there had to be a connection. She stood still and watched the stone figures growing gradually darker in the dying light, and haltingly stepped toward the one closest to her.

It snarled out towards the world below, carved so skillfully from the balcony it looked as if it were perching there, grasping it with powerful taloned feet. It was huge; its wings were tense and arching in the air as it crouched, seemingly captured just seconds before lifting upwards into the sky. The face was astonishing. Just as its body created a sense of life, its face did even more so—the eyes seemed intent on something far in the distance, its mouth no longer seeming a snarl to Marjorie but a grim tick of the mouth—almost as if he'd been caught mid-sneeze.

Marjorie turned to the other creatures in awe. As far as she could see, each was strikingly different from one another, the same amount of detail and cunning skill going into each. To create something so lifelike, with so much care…and to put them up here, far away from where anyone could see them or appreciate them? That seemed like such a shame, Marjorie thought, with a touch of sadness. It felt as if the world was missing something wonderful, in this lonely spot.

Feeling slightly morose, Marjorie made her way back to her bag and dinocam, and sat against the clock face. The sun had nearly set. She was no longer sure of what she was doing here, and her mind felt blank.

She considered leaving, but it seemed like such a waste after everything she had gone through in order to get here. So, moments passed by silently, Marjorie sitting still and gazing out at the darkening sky over the stone figures, thinking of nothing in particular.

The sun set. And beyond the realm of mortal ken, the Universe was very, very pleased. Things were about to get very complicated for Marjorie Cambell.


	4. Chapter Four

**Fairytale of New York**

**Chapter Four: A Little Bit of Hocus Pocus**

HOMIGOSH I'm back. You'll understand when you get started on this why it was a bit delayed--I mean, it's a monster. Anyway, enjoy this new installment in the adventures of Marjorie, knowing that I sacrificed an entire Sunday evening proofing and adjusting and finishing and pulling hair. Kudos to anyone who spots the Sandman reference! Oh, and happy new year!

...in February. Shut up.

And um, slight warning: if you thought this was a fluffball story for some reason, you may be a tad shocked to discover all the blood I put in this chapter. :I The squeemish, beware.  


* * *

Now:

There was a growing discomfort that pushed at Marjorie's eyelids and made her cold. Something hard was pressing into her all around and a terrible aching was in her arm, seeming to increase with every moment, but this was a trick her brain was playing on her: something wasn't hurting her, she was already hurt. She was simply waking up to feel it.

It was her arm. She was against something hard, slumped into it, and she couldn't sit up strait and she couldn't really feel her arm but she could feel it hanging there, and the pain she could almost feel but didn't frightened her and she tried to move a little.

It was a mistake. Pain shot up her arm like lightning and flashed behind her eyes, making her jerk her head back and cry out a little. When the white-hot path flashing in her eyes faded after the pain subsided, Marjorie was still looking up, looking through the dim light coming through the shattered glass windows over the rubble, eyes wide in fear because she had just remembered what had happened and where she was, and she was so scared because she knew she didn't know how badly she was hurt and she had heard it just after she had cried out, a movement from somewhere in the dark she couldn't see and she held her breath.

The gargoyle was still alive.

It was going to kill her.

* * *

Exactly ten hours thirty-three minutes earlier:

"I still don't see why we had to come back," Matt was complaining. "We'd barely been gone fifteen minutes—"

"Yeah, Bluestone, I know," Elisa said tensely. She was walking ahead of him at such a brisk pace he had to nearly jog to keep up. "Just give me a few moments to take care of something, and we can go."

There was an edge in her voice Matt had heard a few times before. It wasn't often, but occasionally something would trigger something—a chick thing, he guessed—and suddenly there was no telling what was going through her head. Matt studied his partner from behind as she charged into the stairwell and started climbing two at a time. Keeping pace, he wondered if he wasn't surprised by these odd mood swings so much as he was by the completely innocuous times at which she went off.

Just a few moments ago, for instance. Captain Chavez asked them to do a background check on a few suspicious storefronts in connection to a contraband ring that had ties with Dracon's crew. Matt would've thought that Elisa would've been eager for the chance to settle the score with Dracon after he had weaseled his way out of a lasting sentence for having her shot, not to mention weapon theft and racketeering; but he was learning now that what you'd expect with a badge like Elisa wasn't always what you got.

It might have had something to do with that girl, he thought. Elisa seemed to have known her from somewhere, and after she got in the car she couldn't stop glancing back in the mirror, her fingers twitching on the wheel. When he'd asked about her, Elisa had brushed it off, saying something about the library. But not even six blocks away from the station Elisa had swerved back the other direction, nearly giving him a heart attack, saying only that there was something important she had forgotten about she had to take care of before they left.

When she got like this, Matt had learned (the hard way) that it was pointless in trying to get an answer out of her. It struck him as odd, to be certain, but he also was well aware of just how odd he seemed to everyone else in the precinct, Elisa included. He'd gotten a lot of grief over the years about his own quirky obsession with conspiracy theories, but never more than the occasional roll of the eyes from Elisa. So he was perfectly willing whenever these rare instances of inexplicable behavior reared up to just stand unobtrusively out of the way.

"Yo, Matt," she said from above him, and Matt looked up to see that she'd picked up speed while he'd been pondering. "Look, I'm…sorry about just rushing back like this. Why don't you grab some coffee and rest for a sec, okay? I'll be back down as soon as I'm done." Her voice and face were apologetic and a little awkward, as if she were a bit embarrassed.

"Okay. Sure thing," Matt responded after a surprised pause at her sudden shift in attitude. Oh, Maza and her mercurial moods. If it wasn't for the fact that he occasionally spent his spare time trying to track down ancient secret societies by decoding their messages from the bar codes of Pepsi cans, he'd swear left and right that she was the with the head full of crazy.

Elisa Maza watched her partner backtrack to the fourth floor stairwell exit, her head filled with a notion that most people would indeed deem crazy. Her partner didn't know about the tenants up in the clock tower, and neither did anyone else. After she heard the click of the door closing behind him, Elisa was off at a run up the stairs, in order to make sure that it stayed that way.

As soon as that girl had asked about the clock tower, alarm bells had gone off in her head. Her instinct had flared, and she should have done something right away instead of just going along with Matt like nothing was wrong. She was frantically wracking her brains: was there some way that someone could have traced the gargoyles back to the tower? Was this girl some sort of scout, for Xanatos maybe? Didn't strike her as his style, but Xanatos always had some hidden angle—

"Get a grip, Maza," she told herself between gasps for air, finally reaching the top landing. More than likely the girl was just a nosy kid. But better make sure and get to the guys and warn them first—

—Elisa's hand just touched the door knob before the door was forced out, and a blur dressed in faded blue with a desperate expression pummeled straight into her, knocking them both to the edge of the stairs below with a startled yell. Elisa's hand shot out and grabbed at the railing, her other arm vice-like around the girl, keeping them from tumbling down the rest of the stairs but forcing them down into a very painful heap.

There was confusion and panic as they both struggled to get themselves upright, each hurried movement impeding the other until Elisa snatched the girl's wrist and both recognized each other in a flash of dread, and both were still and frozen on the floor, each seeing in the other's eyes that there was no longer any way out.

* * *

Now:

Marjorie felt herself paralyzed by a primal force. Once she had picked up a pet rabbit of a schoolgirl friend as a child, and had been alarmed at how frightened it had been in her hands, rigid and terrified, and as the rabbit's its heart thrummed she could feel it through its entire body. This is what it had felt, she realized, and she was as helpless to feeling it as the rabbit was; it swallowed her completely.

"H-hh-hhnnnn…"

Marjorie's breathing hitched, and then increased. Somewhere in her mind she knew at once that this sound was one of pain, much like the involuntary cry she had released earlier.

That it could still be alive—after that blast—it had thrown her against the wall, off of her feet in an instant as if she was weightless, the burning light and thunder…

"H-chk-hhck-k-k…"

Every nerve shaking, Marjorie summoned what strength she had left in her trembling legs and pulled her feet closer to her, careful not to make a sound as she lifted them over the debris that littered the floor. Any motion set off the dull throb in her arm to a sharp searing agony, but she bit down on her lip. How long it took for her to finally stand against the wall she couldn't tell—time had become meaningless.

She took her first step, and saw at once how she would immediately upset a chuck of stone that had been blown apart in the blast before she had time to put down her foot—

The sound it made as it tumbled to the floor was earth shattering in the still darkness. The groaning sounds ceased.

It had heard her.

* * *

Exactly ten hours twenty-two minutes earlier:

"Did something—whoa, hey, you guys alright?" A sandy-haired man in uniform had opened the door, his eyes full of surprise and then concern. Elisa pulled the girl up from where she'd been sitting stunned a moment before. "Uh, yeah, we're fine, uh…Phil. Just an accident. We'll be alright—"

Elisa glanced at the girl, who was still very pale and clearly shaken up. Her lips were pressed in a tight line and she didn't say anything, but nodded, her wrist tugging only slightly from Elisa's grip.

"Well, good, ya' know—you gotta be careful sometimes, I've said about these doors, if anyone's on the other side and there's an emergency—POW!, you know? You sure you're not hurt?" He was holding the door open still, looking at the girl. Elisa slipped her arm behind the girl's waist and began gently steering her towards the hallway, the girl giving no resistance.

"We're just shaken up," Elisa said, pulling the girl alongside a little more firmly. "Thanks, we're just, uh, we're gonna take the elevator down. Yeah, these doors are just…"

"Yeah, well, they are just the worst, then, aren't they? I got doors like those in my building, and people are always pushing them open and there have been so many times…" Officer Phil Travanti fell into step behind them, talking amiably about the hazards of stairwells and door usage, forming a rear guard without his even realizing it. Elisa saw the kid swallow nervously as they neared the elevator, her hand trembling a little in her grasp the entire time.

"Be just a little bit more careful next time, alright now?" He smiled at them both as the elevator doors closed, giving the kid one final wink before they shut, sealing them in together, alone, for a few minutes more.

Elisa let go of the girl's wrist. She immediately took it in her other hand, moving away from Elisa as far as she could to lean against the side of the elevator. She kept her eyes to the floor, her shoulders hunched as if she were trying to look smaller.

Elisa studied her openly, face inscrutable. She really was just a kid—small build, coming only just past Elisa's shoulder. Her hair was a reddish chestnut that curled haphazardly to her shoulders, and her eyes were scared and blue. She was probably younger than her little sister Beth, who wasn't even out of college yet. It was hard to believe that anyone this rattled would have known what was waiting for them in that clock tower; it was clear to Elisa that whatever the kid had thought was up there, she hadn't been expecting what she actually found.

"It's a pretty slow elevator," Elisa said finally. The kid flinched, but kept her eyes on the floor. A silent moment passed, and Elisa turned away, leaning against the opposite elevator wall.

"You went up into the clock tower, didn't you?" She asked like it was a question, but they both knew the answer already.

There was a feeling of entrapment that made it impossible for either of them to look at one another. The elevator locked them both inside with a heaviness that surrounded them and pressed in at them from all sides, a perfect reprise of that feeling they had shared for an instant above in the stairwell: they didn't know it about each other, but both of them were caught and couldn't avoid what was to come next.

Despite her calm exterior, Elisa was awash with turbulent, nervous emotions. The girl had gone looking for something at the clock tower. Either something had led her there or she hid more than she let on—this wasn't just pure accident. If it weren't for that one thing…Elisa considered but couldn't complete the thought; she honestly didn't know what she would've done even if it had been just an accident. She didn't know what she was going to do now. She hadn't been prepared for this at all.

The kid swallowed nervously again, the sound incongruously loud in the quiet elevator. Her voice cracked. "What's going to happen now?"

Elisa turned her head to look and met the kid's eyes, which were no longer panicked. They were wide and tense, like a cornered animal, but Elisa found she couldn't manage to change her stony expression. She'd had nightmares where somehow the secret of the gargoyles had gotten out and things spiraled beyond her control, dreams that left her drenched in sweat and fear when she finally awoke; they never ended well.

Elisa wasn't going to take that risk. Elisa decided that before she let this kid out of her sight, before she let this kid get anywhere near the gargoyles again—she was going to make absolutely certain that this kid posed no threat at all to her friends.

"We're going to go somewhere and talk," she said, "and then we'll decide what to do after." Before the door had opened to the first floor, Elisa already had a hold of the girl's arm in a grip as hard as the look in her eyes.

* * *

Now:

Marjorie didn't move, desperately straining to hear if the creature began moving towards her. The silence in the tower room was almost a defining sound itself, and a part of Marjorie's brain that was not completely focused on not being killed wondered if this was the sound that people in horror films heard while everyone else in the audience got cellos and warning music, and if right now if it was playing would this be the part where she would go toward the creature instead of running for dear life out the door—

Marjorie nearly cried out in dismay, but held it back just in time. She had just realized that the gargoyle, somewhere in the center of the room, was directly between her and the door.

The moaning began again, starting with a soft wheeze and growing to a whimper. It broke in pained gasps, and other expressions of pain Marjorie wished she could shut her ears to rose up from the dark.

The gargoyle would kill her, if it got the chance. But if it was wounded as it sounded…there was still the possibility of escape, if she could be quick and quiet about it. Marjorie began to take small, tense steps towards the sounds, avoiding the rubble that had been cast to the floor in the explosion. Well aware of her own pains, it took Marjorie a good deal of time to find her way in the dim light. It was getting a little brighter with each passing moment, and the sun would rise soon. The sounds of pain became clearer; they were coming from behind the solid oak table that had overturned in the blast.

The instruments that had been on the table were scattered across the floor; glass beakers shattered, torn old pages of paper stirring slightly on the floor, pined down by chucks of rock and ceiling plaster shaken loose. The squat pumpkin-sized cauldron was on its side, its contents congealing on the floor. Next to the cauldron, gleaming silver, was the knife. It was still covered in blood, and the sight of it brought back all of Marjorie's earlier sensations of fear, too recent, too strong—she was frozen looking at it, powerless to stop looking at it. It was shining in the dark—it was somehow beautiful for all of its danger, despite the blood, despite what it had done…Her fingers idly brushed the blood-soaked rag that was wrapped around her injured arm.

"N-no…"

It was something in that plea that reached Marjorie. She blinked and was surprised to discover that she had walked closer to the knife and was in the middle of picking it up. This brought her too close to the table—too close to what was on the other side.

Marjorie's panic doubled in an instant. She lost her balance—hand steadying herself grabbing the table, making too much noise—she had to stay low and back up and get out—

"Ple-e-ase…"

Marjorie stopped. Why was it now, even as she was so scared…those cries sounded so pitiful? It didn't make sense to stay—for any reason—

Without looking at the knife, she groped in the dark and found it, gripping it tightly with her good hand. Slowly, she lifted herself bit by bit and looked over the edge of the table.

* * *

Exactly nine hours, thirty-three minutes ago:

The camera had started humming.

"Now that's really strange," Lexington said. For the better part of the last two hours he had been tinkering with it, and though he had prodded it and studied it from every angle he was certain that he had nothing to do with the camera's sudden activation.

"Find something, lad?" Hudson asked, peering over his shoulder. For the better part of two hours he had been slowly pacing their home waiting for the others to return. It was unlike Hudson to pace. It was unlike him to waste energy in idle gestures that served no purpose beyond betraying an agitated state. It was also unlike a gargoyle to worry and fret about the safety of his home instead of facing the threat directly…but like so many things he was discovering, the world in which he made his home was unlike many things he had been accustomed to.

Bronx, who for the better part of two hours had been watching dejectedly as Hudson wandered the clock tower, heaved himself off his haunches and made his way towards Lexington, sniffing at the camera interestedly. "It sounds like it's finally turned on," Lexington was saying. "But it's weird. It's a really old model, obviously. I've never seen one like this. And even weirder, there's not any place to put in tape or film inside. Or batteries, or a place to recharge it. It's almost like it was built not to work. And now…" He lifted the eyepiece to a bulbous, curious eye. "I can't say for certain, but I think it's recording somehow…"

"Hmm," Hudson replied, offering it more in politeness than in comprehension. He gave his beard a thoughtful stroke. "As, ah, _interestin_' as this…device is," he said, gesturing to the camera with a hesitant wave, "are ye sure it's more important than scouting the area with Goliath and the others?"

"If I can get this to work, there might be something on this camera that can help us find that girl," Lexington said, lowering the camera to scrutinize the front lens. "She could have things recorded on here. Where she lives, what she sees…" Lexington's fingers shifted uncomfortably over the plastic handle made for much smaller hands. "…What she wants…"

The silence, broken only by the soft sound of taloned fingers brushing old plastic, filled the air with a solemn weight that settled heavily on their shoulders. Bronx's ears began to droop as he gave off small whines of concern, when they all heard the sound of light footsteps hurriedly scrambling up the ladder.

"Hudson, Lex—any word yet?" It was a tense and breathless Elisa.

"Goliath and the others haven't gotten back yet," Lexington answered, setting the camera down on the table before him in an almost apologetic acknowledgement of defeat. "And I'm not doing much better with this thing. I think it's broken."

"Great," Elisa sighed, casting an anxious look towards the clock face window. She rubbed her hand over her face and through her hair in a similarly uncharacteristic sign of hopelessness. "We lasted for an entire four months. So much for a safe home."

"This wasn't your fault, lass," Hudson said at once, fighting to make his tone less grave. He took her by the arm and led her to his overstuffed chair to sit. "No one could have known that anyone could find us here, least of all a fledgling such as that."

"But it is my fault, Hudson," Elisa groaned as she sank into the armchair. "She was just a kid, and I probably put the fear of God in her…just because she threw me off. And now…" Unnoticed by anyone, the camera zoomed in closer, centering on Elisa's face: anxiety, regret, fear…

"What…happened anyway?" Lexington asked, prompting both Hudson and Elisa to look up. "I mean, I just had woken up, and she was just sitting there—looking terrified. I thought she was going to scream, but she just bolted…"

"And that's about when I found her," Elisa continued, eyes staring unfocusedly at the floor. "I almost got her out, but she slipped away from me in the station when I got distracted, managed to hail a cap and hightail it out of here before I could grab her—and I mean, _seconds_ before I could touch her." She held her forehead in her hands. "Managed to get back up here to you guys to see if you could find her, then ran back down to convince Matt that we'd have to call it quits tonight—forget what excuse I used." She was silent for a moment. "If I had just told her she wasn't in any danger—"

"Elisa, no," Lexington responded firmly. "This isn't your fault. There's no telling if she would have listened anyway. She was probably overwhelmed."

"Aye. So overwhelmed she even left her…cam-cording device," Hudson added uncertainly. As if it were surprised to hear itself mentioned in the conversation, the camera issued several panicked whirling noises. Lexington narrowed a suspicious eye in its direction.

"At least she didn't fall off the building," Elisa added, smiling wryly. Suddenly she sat upright, a spark in her eyes. "You said she left her camera. Did she leave anything else?"

"There's this," Lexington answered, picking up a piece of paper lying next to the camera. Elisa got up at once and read it quickly, flipping it over to see if anything remained on the back when she had finished. "'All your answers begin here.' Not much to go on. I guess an address was too much to hope for."

"It's something, though," Lexington pointed out. "Now we know she was sent here by someone, even if she might not have known what she was going to find."

Elisa looked at the paper one last time before folding it and placing it in her jacket. "I've told Matt that that girl was a friend of my sister's," Elisa told them, and Hudson was relieved to hear some of Elisa's usual strength. "I told him I thought she might be in trouble, so he and I pulled some favors and have a few cops keeping an eye out for her. It's not much but…" Elisa gave a small, almost restricted shrug of the shoulders, as if something of great weight rested there. "If nothing turns up, and the worse happens…all of you come to my apartment. No arguments, okay? No matter what Goliath might say."

"And what if I say, Elisa, that I do not wish to leave my home a second time?"

Goliath had returned. None of them had noticed his arrival, but he had been standing silently as a shadow within the door of the clock face, his gaze stony. Broadway and Brooklyn peeked in from behind the doorway, looking uncertain.

Elisa sighed a long, weary sigh. "Goliath, don't tell me we're going to have the castle versus family argument again. The clock tower obviously isn't safe anymore, and that's…" Elisa looked utterly miserable. "…my fault."

"None of this is anyone's fault," Goliath replied evenly, descending the stairs. "If I have learned but one thing from my experiences departing from my own time and awakening into this one, it is that life is…unpredictable." Goliath stood before Elisa, his expression betraying a myriad of emotions reflected in the camera lens. Regret, certainly, but something else: strength, a solemn resolve that seemed unshakeable.

"And one more thing I know," Goliath continued with greater volume so as to address the rest of his clan, the stone bricks, the floating dust motes, the universe: "This place is home to us, and I will not so easily allow that to change."

"I know that too," Elisa said. She reached out and placed her hand over Goliath's arm, looking up at him with concern. "But things are never that simple. There's too much going on we don't know about. Not the girl, not what might happen if she…we don't know what she might do," her voice almost pleading.

Goliath turned away from her slightly, eyes and forehead furrowing in thought. The rest of the clan observed in silence. The bricks and dust mites uttered not a word. No one could hear it, but the camera was quietly zooming out, further and further, and the universe was whispering…

Goliath opened his eyes. "There is a frightened child running from what she has no need to fear," he said, his voice firm. "And we have learned time and time again that fear will endanger those who cannot fight it. Lexington, if you haven't found anything yet, leave it be. We still have much ground to cover and the night grows short. This time, we will extend our search to the east..."

* * *

Now:

Marjorie forced herself to breathe slowly. The gargoyle was covered in rubble from the explosion, one wing ripped through and bleeding on the stone. When the glass beaker had broken, it had cut her to the bone, the blood leaking like tiny black rivers up and down her limbs.

The whimpers, which were beginning to sound wet, were coming from her throat…

"Oh," Marjorie whimpered herself, dropping the knife. She rushed and stumbled to her side, her good hand frantically scrambling along the floor for the knife, panic rising, she awkwardly began to cut the midriff of her blouse. She tried not to think of the time this was taking or how sharp the knife was or how quickly the gargoyle was bleeding out.

Just as Marjorie finished cutting a filthy strip of cloth from her blouse the gargoyle's left arm began to twitch under the hunk of wooden beam that had fallen from the ceiling, and her eyes opened.

Marjorie's heart stopped, but the gargoyle's eyes were cloudy, unseeing, and beyond her trembling arm, she made no attempt to move. Marjorie wasn't entirely sure if the gargoyle realized what had happened to her.

Her hand shaking less than it had earlier in the evening when she had met the detective woman, Marjorie carefully began to lean towards the gargoyle's neck. An evil-looking shard of glass was buried upright in the center of the gargoyle's throat, blood pulsing out in steady trickles.

"You—you shouldn't move—" Marjorie whispered quietly.

At the sound of her voice, the gargoyle's eyes opened wider and her mouth twisted in a snarl as her body strained to spring up despite the debris pinning it, enraged. Her violent movements worsened her condition, and Marjorie could only watch, horrified, as the gargoyle upended the ceiling beam and ripped the glass shard from her own throat.

Time slowed down as the gargoyle slowly looked up at Marjorie, hand filling with blood, eyes glinting and awake…

* * *

Exactly five hours, five minutes ago:

Marjorie was walking, trancelike, down a street she couldn't name. She had just left the public library, though she forgot to give the stone lion on the left side a friendly pat on the head like she always did whenever she came here, and she didn't really leave—she'd been kicked out.

Marjorie didn't remember falling asleep, but that's how the extremely bad-tempered guard had found her, four hours past closing time and curled up on the floor surrounded by books with titles like _Gargoyles: Monsters of the Medieval Church; Drainspouts and Dungeons: Gargoyles in English Folklore_ and even _Goldie the Gargoyle and the Grumpy Ghost Save Christmas._ She had tried to explain that she didn't mean to fall asleep there and that she hadn't stayed behind on purpose, but the guard (a stout, cankerous woman with sharp, manicured fingernails) fumed so much that Marjorie couldn't get a word in.

And so she had listlessly walked down the stairs, both directionless and a little bit scared.

It had just seemed like the library was the perfect place to go—big sturdy stone structure, lots of people, lots of books, and newspapers, and all sorts of things that were bound to have answers in them. It seemed perfectly natural that when that taxi had pulled up as she had run out the police station door, "take me to the New York Public Library" had popped out instead of more, say, pressing things, like "there are a bunch of stone wingy monsters in the clock tower and also there's a scary police woman who wants to kill me so drive away very fast please."

But now, that was over. Now she was just another anonymous New Yorker loitering down whichever empty street she could find. Surrounded by neons and streetlights, Marjorie was separated from any monsters or darkness they inhabited; one of the most wonderful things about New York City was that while it was crowded dangerous and dirty it was never, ever completely dark. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the display window of a closed beauty salon. "Okay," she said to her own tired face. "Monsters are real. What next?" She gazed at her reflection a while longer, searching for a hint of the answer she knew wasn't there. Finally, she turned away and kept walking.

What would Lonan do? Marjorie suddenly wondered. He _had_ seen these creatures—_gargoyles_, she corrected herself—he _had_, that night in Time Square, and so he had believed it even when everyone told him they couldn't be real. Did he still believe in them? If she told him that what she'd seen…

A rising excitement building in Marjorie's chest floundered as soon as it had started. No, he'd just think she was teasing him. Likely he'd put it out of his mind a long time ago, since he hadn't brought it up since that snowy night in January.

Marjorie crossed the street, still unconcerned with her destination or present whereabouts.

"It was really dumb, not telling him about it over the phone," Marjorie muttered glumly. "He wouldn't know what to do either, but at least he'd be someone to talk to. He'd say, 'You see, M, I told you so,' and I would say, 'Quite right you were, my dear friend Lonan, but whatever are we to do about it now?' and he would say, 'Why, I haven't the foggiest, my dear, but perhaps we should stay away from crazy armed women in the police force, what what? Never know who they're in cahoots with.' 'Jolly good, Lonan, jolly good, we shant go to the police, but what of the press? Do you think they've got their fingers in the pie as well?' 'Shocking to think of, isn't it, old chap! Best not take any chances, even if they would believe us. No, best keep our heads down for now, I should say so.' 'But, good sir Lonan, what should we do…next….'"

Completely absorbed in her hypothetical (and oddly British) conversation, Marjorie had unwittingly led herself some how back onto 5th avenue—along side Central Park, no less.

Marjorie looked into the darkness and tangle of trees in the park, and without realizing it, smiled. "He would say," she said, slowly, "'Marjorie, you only live once.'"

And so it was that barely twelve minutes later she found herself standing before Belvedere Castle, and she was not as surprised as she would have otherwise been to see a light coming from the very top of the tower.

The door was unlocked, and Marjorie slid into the unlit first room as quietly as a shadow, avoiding the velvet ropes that littered the floor. There had been a sign outside proclaiming that the Conservancy's Historic Preservation Crew was soon to start extensive repairs and replacements in the next few days; in the dark Marjorie spotted large crates covered in plastic where an entire corner of the room had been stripped away of hardwood flooring.

Marjorie took a calming breath, and started up the castle spiral staircase. It was utterly devoid of light and claustrophobically small, and Marjorie was forced to climb up with her hands stretched out before her so she wouldn't trip on the high steps. Marjorie was filled with a sudden and deep regret for losing the dinocam earlier. No doubt it would have let her see her way up the winding staircase, if not what exactly it was she was looking for. After what seemed like an eternity, she reached the top of the stair, and let out tense sigh in relief. She had never done well in dark, enclosed spaces.

The light she had seen from below the tower had been dim, and now she could see why—the room was filled with dozens and dozens of dripping wax candles, giving off not enough light to be visible from a great distance but just enough to make the room incredibly creepy. In the center of the room sat a large, thick oak table, littered with what looked like old parchment and glass beakers. But Marjorie's attention was drawn to a pumpkin-sized pewter cauldron suspended over a Bunsen burner in the center of the table. As she took a few steps closer, a rustling from above startled her, and Marjorie looked up to see a caged owl—of all things, a snowy, white owl—its feathers puffed, eyes curious. She gawked at it, and turned in all directions once again to take in the room in all its manufactured mystic glory. "Talk about your hocus pocus," she whispered as she peered into the bubbling cauldron, a bit of a laugh sneaking in. "It's like someone's planned by day to include all the clichéd…weird…stuff…"

Marjorie trailed off, all mirth disappearing. Behind the cauldron lay the most evil knife she had ever seen. It looked sharp enough to slice the air into pieces, its blade more brilliant than the steel of regular knives, its handle made from some kind of polished black stone. This wasn't a tame sort of knife, she knew somehow. This knife was meant to spill blood. She glanced up at the owl in its cage in cold realization. Innocent blood…

"Okay," Marjorie said shakily. "I've had just enough freakiness for today, I think."

Noticing a long metal rod leaning against the wall behind the owl's cage, she took it and used the hooked end to lift the top of the cage from where it was suspended to a beam on the ceiling (not an easy task; the owl was small but the cage was heavy). With effort, she managed to lower the cage down to the table, though not as smoothly as she or the owl would have liked; it shifted nervously in its cage and made tiny clicking noises as the cage landed heavily on the hard oak.

"Hey, shh, little guy," Marjorie whispered as reassuringly as she could. "I'm gonna get you out of here, and you can go back to Canada or whatever, and then I'm gonna get out of here before whoever owns that knife comes back to…I'm going home, and I am never leaving it ever again..."

She'd reached the window, the cage precariously dangling on the metal rod in front of her. The windows were small. Marjorie had a tricky moment in which she had to open the cage door and keep the cage suspended and near the window so the owl wouldn't escape into the room. She needn't have worried, for as soon as she had barely opened the cage door the owl and launched itself outward, darting through the window and knocking the cage to the floor. It landed with a clattering crash that resounded through the room.

Marjorie froze. She didn't dare to breathe. She turned back towards the stairwell, straining her ears for any sound. Nothing. She wanted to take that staircase at a run, fly out through the door—but she controlled her steps, quick and light, to the stairwell. At the first step down into the dark, she faltered. Complete darkness in space so small there was no room to fight, and if someone was coming up for her…

But then, there was a light. It was dim in the darkness, and an eerie shade of red. They reminded her, completely incongruously, of the lights on the bottom of kids' sneakers that lit up red when they walked; and as they grew closer, the sound of heavy footsteps followed. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she recognized them: eyes.

It would be a moment that would come back in Marjorie's dreams many, many times. It was every child's nightmare made wholly real: the monster that had always been there finally emerging from the darkness, movements slow and languid, because it knew you were paralyzed with fear—fear of its claws, and teeth, and those eyes that never looked away.

In that first, terrible moment that the gargoyle crossed the threshold from darkness to flickering candle light, Marjorie was living this nightmare. She was so completely captured by it that when the gargoyle stepped into the light and Marjorie could see her as she really was (livid red hair, burning blue skin, grace of a panther and fury of thunder), Marjorie knew right away that whatever she had felt in her panic of running away from the creatures of the clock tower was nothing compared to this; they were not the same as she.

"Human," the nightmare growled in a voice that was burnt velvet and barbed wire. "You've just made the biggest mistake of your life."

* * *

Now:

She roared. And it was as if this nightmare had repeated itself: Marjorie was pinned to the oak table, all the breath squeezed out of her by a crushing strength, eye to eye with hate and rage and tooth and claw.

"What. Did. You. _DO?!"_ she snarled. Marjorie wouldn't have been able to answer, even if she knew or had the strength to speak; the gargoyle's face was contorted in the twisted, unreal mask of a berserker, eyes casting a burning red glow through furious slits.

But then, the gargoyle's grip on Marjorie's throat began to loosen. With a spasm of pain, the gargoyle shrank back to the ground, her other hand holding the wound on her neck.

"Y-you're hurt," Marjorie said. Somehow, the chance of seeing her die in front of her eyes scared chilled Marjorie more than her claws and teeth.

"I should kill you," the gargoyle growled, her voice sounding feeble. She couldn't hold herself up properly. Marjorie could see her tail straining to maintain her balance behind her. Realizing she still had the cloth strip in her hand, she reached out without thinking towards the wound.

If Marjorie thought the gargoyle was too injured to make good on her murderous threat, she soon saw how mistaken she was: like a cornered animal, the gargoyle lunged with a force that couldn't be believed. The searing pain she felt as her injured arm was crushed beneath the gargoyle ripped a scream from her throat. It might have been "I'm sorry!" or "Please, no!"; Marjorie somehow had the presence of mind to think how remarkable it is when someone is panicked enough how all vowels tend to sound the same.

"The spell," the gargoyle was rasping. "How could you have done that to it?"

Marjorie shook her head helplessly, but the gargoyle's grip grew harder, her talons creating three bloody grooves just below Marjorie's collarbone. The gargoyle insisted over Marjorie's gasps of pain: "Answer, human, or I _will_ put a stop to your whimpering for good!"

* * *

Exactly ten hours forty-one minutes earlier:

Rodger returned home to the smell of stale pizza thawing in the microwave and peanut sauce: Lonan was cooking again. It usually happened every month between grocery trips, when the refrigerator began growing bare. For reasons Rodger had never been able to comprehend, this event compelled Lonan to use up whatever was left by combining it in the most unlikely ways possible, often resulting in dishes like Barbeque-Wing-Peanut-Butter-Spinich-Wraps-with-Mayonaise-and-Bacon-Strips-on-the-side, or Steamed-Vegetables-Meet-Half-of-a-Salmon-with-a-bit-of-Taco-Meat-in-Spagettieos-with-Fortune-Cookies.

"Hey," he greeted with a sigh, throwing a glance in the kitchen. Lonan seemed to be combining last night's Thai with last week's pizza leftovers.

"Oh, hey," Lonan looked up from his creation-in-progress, startled. "I thought you said you had rehearsal today."

"Had. Did," he sighed with more strength, allowing himself to fall back onto the battered sofa that took up most of the floor space in their flat's living room. "Over."

"Single syllables," Lonan observed wryly. "So, terrible?"

Rodger cocked his left hand to his temple and pantomimed the firing of a gun. Under the smell of peanut sauce drifted a faint hint of garlic and pineapple.

"I couldn't believe it," Rodger began to moan, his arm covering his eyes, his mouth the perfect portrait of despair. "They don't…they _can't_—they're _butchering me_! I'm doing everything I can to make it work, but you'd think I was working with, with _chimpanzees_…"

Rodger continued in this vein unceasingly for a great period of time. Lonan wasn't really listening, and he wasn't really required to—as long as he threw out the occasional "Huh," or "Yeah, of course" or even a disbelieving "_No!_" now and then at the appropriate times. Rodger and Lonan had been roommates since sophomore year together, and there was a reason they could still stand each other: they worked. Both realized they were hard to live with, and had managed to create a system in which all difficulties were planned for, rendered unnoticed, or solved altogether. Sometimes Rodger could get largely overdramatic and rant for hours at a time when the mood struck him; so what? Lonan opened the window in the morning in all kinds of weather to smoke and liked to make Hauaiian-Pizza-Pad-Thai-Chicken-Noodle-Soup-with-chunks-of-Garlic-Bread.

Rodger paused for breath. "Did you talk to Marjorie about tomorrow night?" Lonan asked before Rodger could begin anew. "Is she free?"

There was a moment of silence, and Lonan looked up from his bubbling cauldron. Rodger lay down on the couch hidden from view, his disembodied voice becoming speculative. "Lonan…have you noticed Marjorie acting stranger than usual?"

Lonan's hand paused briefly in the middle of reaching for a bottle of aged vinegar, but quickly recovered. "How so?" he asked.

"She wanted a disguise from our prop room." Rodger sat up and looked squarely at Lonan, his expression pensive. "She wanted something that would get her somewhere unnoticed. And she wouldn't tell me—_me!_—what it was for," he said, sounding like he had been passed over for an invitation to a fun party.

Lonan's thought of last night's phone call. As expected, Marjorie hadn't given any explanation as to what it had been about, nor had she called him or come to see him. Marjorie was Marjorie, and if he was honest with himself he knew that it was beyond him to say when, if ever, she acted in fashion that most people called normal. But last night…had been different.

Something deeply private had been shared in that phone conversation, he thought. Maybe not a secret or a confession, but some emotion that he had never heard in Marjorie's voice before. Something was going on, and if even Rodger had noticed it…

"Nah," Lonan replied with a dismissive shrug. "It's probably Marjorie just being Marjorie. You know how she is," he added, flipping his pan-fried pizza so to evenly cook the sour-cucumber noodles. "She gets through everything without a scratch and wearing a smile."

* * *

Exactly four hours, thirty-two minutes ago:

Marjorie backed into the table. The gargoyle lunged with a snarl, and Marjorie threw her hands up to shield her face. Before she could scream she was flung to the floor, ceiling and stone beneath her whirling so fast that she only knew she had hit the floor when she felt something crack inside her arm, and she cried out in fearful despair, for it was her left arm, the one she played fiddle with, and she was going to die.

"You meddlesome bug," the gargoyle was saying. "Thought you'd go for a late night stroll in the park and poke your nose in when you saw something up in the tower?" Marjorie sobbed and struggled to get away, crawling with her good arm, the gargoyle picked her up from behind. Do you have _any_ idea what I had to go through to get that bird in a place like Manhattan?!"

It was too much. The pain and shock in her arm, the horror that had attacked her—Marjorie's eyes rolled back and she fainted.

Moments later she woke up slumped in the corner, arm searing with pain. "Count yourself lucky I needed you alive, human," said a harsh, clipped voice. Marjorie looked up to see the gargoyle standing before the cauldron on the table, her dark, leathery wings folded around her shoulders like an elegant cape. "Otherwise, I would have made sure you would have never woken up after such an undignified display of cowardice."

As she said this, the gargoyle turned slightly to give Marjorie a cool, sharp glance. Her eyes were no longer red, Marjorie was surprised to see, and the fact that she wasn't snarling or displaying the rage she had earlier made her less fearsome, if just as formidable, to look at. Her face seemed entirely human: her eyes nicely shaped with a graceful nose, full lips and a delicate pointed chin. There was a dangerous feline aspect about the way she stood, and her cobalt blue skin and vicious red hair reminded Marjorie of the vivid, poisonous things that lived in jungles and rainforests: she was entirely beautiful, Marjorie realized. Beautiful in the way tigers are beautiful, beautiful in the way pythons were beautiful.

Marjorie let out a shaky breath. "I'm sorry," she offered quietly, barely more than whispering. "I—didn't mean—"

"Sorry?" The gargoyle stopped stirring the cauldron, letting her hands slowly grip the edge of the table. "Sorry?" she said again, as if tasting the word and finding it foul. She turned once more to look at Marjorie, and if she had been like fire raging before, she was now like ice.

"Sorry for what, exactly? Sorry for ruining my night? Sorry for the devastation and suffering your race has caused my own? Sorry for your pathetic and useless existence?!"

The gargoyle had drawn nearer and nearer to Marjorie's position on the floor, claws tense and eyes glowing red as her voice grew in volume and malice. Marjorie didn't dare move.

"I have had enough of _your_ kind's endless mewling," she spat, sweeping about and stalking back to the cauldron. "After this spell is complete, I am that much sooner to my goal of ridding myself of all of you once and for all."

"What are you going to do with me?" Marjorie asked haltingly, amazed she was still able to speak at all.

"This spell requires the blood of an innocent," the gargoyle answered, her voice frigid once more. "I am _loath_ to call any human 'an innocent,' but since you've lost me my intended sacrifice I am left with no alternative." In her left hand, the gargoyle was holding a glass beaker to the light, as if admiring its shine. With her right hand, Marjorie saw her pick up the knife…

Marjorie's blood ran cold. "No. No, you can't—"

"Oh I assure you, I can," replied the gargoyle with a cold, widening smile, bringing Marjorie closer to death with every leisurely step she took in her direction. "And what's more, I'll enjoy it very much."

There was no strength in Marjorie's legs. Her heart thudded in her ears and she pressed herself as far back into the wall as she could, but the gargoyle was soon crouching in front of her, the expression on her face that of a contented cat cornering a wounded bird. Without warning the gargoyle reached out and snatched Marjorie's good arm, stretching Marjorie further away from the wall than she could support herself.

"Believe me when I say this is going to hurt," said the gargoyle with serene mirth. She raised the knife.

"No, please no—"

"_Sorry_," said the gargoyle with a smirk. She brought down the knife swiftly across Marjorie's forearm, and Marjorie gave a pained cry and felt terrified tears spring from her eyes. It felt as though the knife had burned her skin as it cut her.

The gargoyle calmly held Marjorie's arm over the mouth of the glass beaker. When she deemed she had enough, she released Marjorie's arm and took a cloth rag. Dazed, Marjorie couldn't see the gargoyle's expression as she hurriedly wrapped the cloth around the wound and tied it in a rough knot: disgust mingled with impatience.

It was several moments after the gargoyle returned to the cauldron that it dawned on Marjorie what she had done. "I thought you said you were going to kill me," Marjorie breathed.

The gargoyle sneered at her. "I said I needed blood. Be patient. When the spell concludes…" she paused, eyes glinting. "Well. All in good time."

She turned back towards the cauldron and with a sudden snap unfurled her wings, making the candlelight tremble. She reverently lifted her hands, the blood in one and the knife in the other, into the air and spoke in a commanding voice: "This night shall listen to my words, until I free it once again to tear apart my foes. Listen!"

Marjorie felt it, then. There was a trembling somewhere, a small, electric pressure that surrounded her. _Ululatus ventus, volubilis nex…_The wind began to blow, swirling inside the room and causing the candlelight to dance madly. _Meus hostilis habitum ut quod est cap…._The gargoyle was still speaking, her words becoming more and more obscured by the sound of the gale: _Per is insons insontis cruor…_The trembling now felt like shaking, and Marjorie watched the shadows on the walls careening and contorting into shapes that grew and spun and shifted, becoming alive…

Thunder was booming outside, though there had been no sign of a storm before. Marjorie watched the room in a kind of terrified wonder, and saw that her own expression was reflected on that of the gargoyle. Her eyes were wide and she cast them about anxiously about the room, and Marjorie had a feeling that somehow things were not going as they were supposed to be.

The wind was pulling at her wings and hair, and she seemed to be having difficulty holding on to the blood and the knife. Furiously, she screamed into the wind as she raised her head defiantly: _Recipero meus vitualamen quod infusio lux lucis! _And on these final words, she tilted the beaker over the cauldron.

Marjorie was huddled in a corner in the darkness of the flickering candle light amidst the howling wind and raging thunder, but somehow she still saw it clearly as it fell: a single drop of crimson blood…

At that precise moment, a massive blackout rolled across Manhattan. Not one light on the entirety of the island was spared: from the tip of Battery Park to the end of the Harlem River, there was complete darkness. And at the center of that darkness was a castle, and in the center of that castle there was a terrible crash of fury and shadow, of noise and chaos.

And at the center of that chaos there was a girl…

* * *

Now:

The girl and the gargoyle looked each other in the eyes and were powerless to look away. Marjorie was perfectly still as the gargoyle began to shake, her claws tightening and sagging around her throat at uneven intervals. "You—you have to tell me—" The gargoyle broke off, her breathing jagged and sickeningly drenched with blood.

"Don't talk, you'll die," Marjorie said, now beyond panic, beyond fear. Her voice was calm and she didn't know why.

"Tell me," the gargoyle struggled to speak. "Tell me…your…name."

There was a silence that lasted forever. "It's Marjorie," she finally said. "Marjorie Campbell."

A wild growl and a flash of red and Marjorie was alone on the floor, the gargoyle vanished so quickly Marjorie didn't have time to blink.

She leaned against the table, utterly spent. Outside the sun was rising. The dried blood on her chest was itching and she was dimly aware of something flowing away. The light seemed to be disappearing, and soon they were alive, stone flying off like sparks in all directions, all of them, and she hadn't realized it at first but they were all stunning.

One of them—one of them sneezed, and she laughed now though it hurt, because she hadn't had the wits to realize it before now and how silly it was. _Gesundheit, Goliath,_ one of them had said cheerfully, and when looking at her they weren't angry or even that scary looking, when she thought about it, but she had run anyway, and that's what she should have done this time but didn't.

She had run but now she wasn't scared…

The sun was up again, shining in her face…

"Miss…miss…" the voice came from far away, and Marjorie opened her eyes and squinted against the bright beaming of the flashlight. "Have you been attacked? Do you need…"

"…have a situation at Belvedere Castle, need an ambulance, repeat, at Belvedere…"

"Hey, Morgan…this kid was at the station last night, with Maza…"

"Maza? She's asked the station to look out for a kid…"

"…the number they did on this place…"

"…call Maza…"

Through the slow and heavy haze that everything had become, Marjorie clutched at a familiar name, murmuring as she slipped away into a deeper sleep. "Detective Maza…I need to find detective Maza…"


	5. Chapter Five

**Fairytale of New York**

**Chapter Five: In Which There is Much Exposition**

A/N: If I haven't said this before, thanks so much for the kind reviews. And to those of you who are truly desperate for more chapters sooner, I'll let you in on a surefire way to get that done: reviews, reviews, reviews. Leave me something, anything. Just the fact that anyone is reading this gives me the greatest thrill. It's like when Mario finds that glowing star, and suddenly the music revs up and none of those mushrooms or flying turtles can touch the guy. Nothing could possibly make me fire up the word program more than getting a new review.

Have I made it perfectly clear what a shameless person I am yet? Good. Please enjoy now.

* * *

The hall adjacent to the ER was flurried in urgent activity. Machines beeped steadily from somewhere out of sight, hushed conversations and well-oiled wheels rushing across polished floors all united in a sense of purpose. It was a focus that Elisa usually appreciated, but the stark-lit rhythm could barely conceal the frantic panic that had overwhelmed it hours before, when the lights had gone black all over the island. In all honesty, she had hoped after her first stay for her gunshot wound she'd never have to visit the place again.

She spotted Dr. Sato halfway down the hall, discussing something with another doctor dressed in blue hospital scrubs. As she made towards him he looked up and saw her, his face worn in the harsh light. As she reached him the other doctor departed, her footsteps in sync with the urgent tempo of the hall. "Detective," Dr. Sato greeted with a small nod. "Keeping well?"

"Yeah, doing great," Elisa answered quickly. "A friend at the station told me that you had an assault victim—?"

"Your friend, yes, I know." He turned towards the east exit of the hall and began walking briskly. Elisa followed. "Well, I'm happy to tell you she'll be fine. I oversaw the transfusion myself. The wounds to her arms are a bit nasty, but I don't foresee any complications—"

"Whoa, doc, hang on here," Elisa interrupted him, halting in the middle of the hall. "Who are you talking about?"

Dr. Sato blinked, surprised. "The girl, of course. The one they brought in earlier this morning. She was asking you by name, so I—I thought you two must know each other."

Elisa felt a moment of potent trepidation, spreading like a single ripple across a pond. But she shook her head and dismissed it. "I only know that an officer I know told me I should see you about an assault victim matching a description I put out earlier."

Dr. Sato looked at Elisa as if he'd just noticed they'd been speaking two separate languages. "Then…you don't know what happened to this girl?"

"Like I said, I don't even know who we're talking about," she answered, doing her best to keep her exasperation in check and achieving only moderate success.

At this, Dr. Sato wearily removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh, dear."

"Dr. Sato, what's wrong? What happened?"

Dr. Sato put his glasses back on and continued to walk the way they had started, though this time at a slower pace. "At around six this morning, a girl was brought into the ER for severe blood loss. She was coming in and out of consciousness, and all she would say was your name. I was supposed to be off-duty by then, but that power outage caused so much chaos that I was still here, when she came in. I thought perhaps you knew each other, and oversaw her treatment while I set her arm." He shot her a quick, reassuring glance. "It's only a hairline fracture, if that's any comfort."

Elisa felt a dozen questions and suspicions crowd into her head and fight for a way out, but not knowing which one was most important she forced them down by clenching her teeth so the doctor could continue.

"The officers that brought her in—one of them must have called you—told me she didn't have any identification. They suspected that she was—well, she was found in the middle of Central Park, obviously beaten. They suspected the worse."

Elisa's stomach clenched and churned in an oddly numb sort of way, like it always did. This time the disquiet returned, and refused to budge. "You said they assumed. Is there any evidence that—?"

"I don't know," Dr. Sato replied, looking more and more exhausted with every step down the brightly lit hall. "She's only been here an hour or so, and only conscious for the last twenty-five minutes. There's a nurse in with her now—we have staff trained for these situations—" The doctor broke off to sigh deeply. "I apologize for the miscommunication, detective. I'd hoped you'd be able to shed some light on what happened to this poor girl."

"That makes two of us," Elisa said mutedly.

Dr. Sato stopped and looked up in alarm. "Please—don't misunderstand me. It troubles me deeply whenever I treat patients that come in all alone, especially when they're so young. I was relieved to know she knew you—you especially, detective." He gave her a respectful nod. "You'll see her through this."

Elisa found herself oddly at a loss for words.

"I only wish I could spare you the shock of finding out who it is like this," Dr. Sato said, leading her down a hall to the left at a much brisker pace.

"You can start by telling me about her injuries," Elisa said, finding her detective voice. The past dozen hours had been a train wreck of nerves and anxieties, but asking the right questions always helped. "How serious was this girl hurt?"

"Not badly. Too much," Dr. Sato said. Elisa looked at him questioningly as he stopped in front of a heavy hospital room door. Through the thick glass Elisa could see the blurred end of a hospital bed, and a heavyset female form standing beside it.

"This is going to sound strange, detective Maza," Dr. Sato began haltingly. "The policemen that brought her in assumed she was assaulted by a group—something about extensive damages of the crime scene."

"You don't think it was a group?" Elisa leaned in closer, glancing from time to time through the door window.

Dr. Sato breathed out a bracing puff of air, as if preparing himself, and spoke in a hushed tone. "I'm not a detective, that I know. I also know that this girl is a victim of a violent attack. But…her injuries are inconsistent. The fracture to her arm is very minor, and her bruises and cuts are more like—like car accident victims. Not deliberate at all, like a windshield just burst in. And then there are these marks, claw marks deep in the skin below the collar bone, like from a wild bird…"

He paused, as if unsure of how to continue. For Elisa, the gap filled itself with dread, and without knowing exactly how, she knew who the girl was. "If her injuries seem…accidental…then how do you know for certain she was attacked?" she asked calmly, finding it easy and not knowing why.

"Treating wounds is my business, detective," he finally said. "You learn to tell the difference between the ones that are accidental and intentional. There was a gash six inches down her right forearm when they brought her in. That's what nearly killed her. I'm not a detective, but…" Dr. Sato looked Elisa in the eye and nothing but bleak conviction passed between them. "…those other injuries are secondary. They happened so the attacker could get what he wanted. And what he wanted was for her to bleed."

Elisa closed her eyes and turned away. Quietly, she opened the door and stepped inside, Dr. Sato behind her.

* * *

Somehow, knowing who lay in that bed didn't make it any easier. Elisa felt her heart drop into her stomach and the air sucked from her lungs though her teeth in a soft hiss. There was something absurd about hospital beds, Elisa thought. It was the size; they were so big they made whoever was in them look like little dolls, and the doll in this bed looked as though it had been treated far too carelessly.

The girl had her eyes closed, an IV attached to her upper right arm, just above the wound Dr. Sato had described, now bandaged tightly. Her other arm rested in a splint. Her skin, pallid in the dimmed light of windowless hospital room, was covered in tiny cuts and splotches of bruises. Elisa felt like she had swallowed a snake, and it twisted in her stomach horribly.

Seeing them come in, the nurse got up and began speaking with Dr. Sato. How was everything? So far, everything was fine. Does she need anything?

Elisa tuned them out. She could feel something dripping away like raindrops pushed back by the wind—the earlier fear of threat coming from this girl crumpled and vanished, a petty thing, replaced by a surer emotion, something that felt right. Nothing else was happening to this girl. Not while she was around.

The girl opened her eyes. Weariness, recognition, nervousness but not fear—those things Elisa could see before she looked away to Dr. Sato, who approached when he saw she was awake. He asked her name and if she knew where she was or how she got there, and the girl (Marjorie, Elisa learned) answered, yes, Manhattan General, and yes, she remembered.

"This is detective Maza," Dr. Sato, and Marjorie cast her eyes to Elisa once more. Neither of them mentioned the introduction wasn't entirely necessary. "You were asking for her in the ER. Do you remember this? She was a patient of mine a while back." A moment passed, as if Dr. Sato was waiting to see the connection between his two patients in this odd bit of kismet, but when nothing was revealed he quietly motioned for the nurse to leave. "We're leaving you with her for now. But should you need anything, just press the call button." And then they left, virtually unnoticed.

The heavy silence in the room was counted out in the small bips and bleeps of the monitoring equipment for a long while before Elisa managed to say anything.

"Marjorie," Elisa finally said, like she was testing it. "Marjorie, right? My name is Elisa Maza."

Marjorie blinked once, and nodded slowly. "There's a rumor going around that we know each other."

Elisa, slightly taken aback, smiled. "There's…something we have to talk about," she continued carefully. "But there's something I have to make clear first."

Elisa hesitated, picked up a chair from beside the door and took a seat next to the bed. "You don't have to be afraid of me," she said. Marjorie took one deep, shaky breath, and winced. "I mean it. There's a lot of things we clearly don't know about each other, but trust this: I'm going to make sure nothing else hurts you."

Marjorie looked as if she were considering this carefully for a moment, and then looked Elisa in the eye and gave a small, affirming nod. "Alright."

"I am so sorry for what happened. I am so sorry."

"You don't even know what happened to me yet." Her voice was small and scratchy. "I don't even really know."

"You—you told Dr. Sato you remembered."

Marjorie looked at Elisa very quickly and swallowed. "I do." There was a shadow of a smile. "But you're the only person I can think of that wouldn't think I'm crazy."

"…I think," Elisa began slowly, "that we've each got a story to tell each other."

A silent breath escaped Marjorie's body, and with it all the tension she'd held within herself. She relaxed in the bed as if her limbs had turned to water. "You first," she said.

* * *

And over the next two hours, that's what happened. Elisa told a story about tenth century Scotland, of Vikings and battles and betrayal and sorcery, of spell-breaking and trickery, of honor and protection and unlikely friendship.

And as awed as Marjorie was (and never in doubt of it, not once), she too found a story to tell: of a letter received one day, the odd but not exactly extraordinary occurrences that followed, of resolve and mystery, of discovery and confusion. It was only when she reached the climax of her story she faltered, her eyes uncertain. "The one that betrayed…everyone…her name was Demona?"

"Yes," Elisa replied, nodding solemnly. "But the others are nothing like her. She's the only one you'd have to worry about. There is no way you'd ever want to meet…" Elisa stopped as apprehension dawned. "What happened to you next, Marjorie?" she pressed.

"She did," Marjorie answered, after a pause. "I think."

Elisa leaned forward, heart beating faster. "Marjorie, tell me what happened."

So, Marjorie continued hesitantly, no longer looking at Elisa but gazing fixedly on the corner of the hospital blanket draped over the foot of her bed. As she went on, the pace of her speech grew faster and less coherent. Elisa had to stop her a few times to clarify things, but when it was over it was clear for Elisa that the blackout the other night hadn't been an accident, and things were linking together at an eerie level.

But at the moment, she realized, there were more immediate worries. Marjorie, having gone over the ordeal so quickly after it had happened, was clearly drained. It was in her hands now. Elisa stood up.

Marjorie looked up, a question in her tired eyes. "There are some things I have to see to," Elisa said as reassuringly as she could. "What I need you to do is rest."

"But—!"

"No, listen," Elisa insisted firmly. "There are some questions that have to be answered, Marjorie. Right now you're hurt and exhausted and I'm in charge, okay? I have to go see to this while you get rest."

"But you still haven't told me," Marjorie protested thickly.

"Told you what?"

Marjorie almost looked on the verge of tears. "What's going to happen next."

The same right feeling Elisa had first felt looking at Marjorie in the hospital bed resurged in her, and she looked at her straight in the eye. "I promise you," she said steadily, "that we'll find out together. _All_ of us. But you have to trust me and rest for now. Alright?"

Marjorie kept Elisa's gaze for a few moments, and finally settled back against the bed, satisfied. "Okay." She closed her eyes.

Elisa watched her for a few seconds, then turned to leave. On her way out she turned back to advise her about not answering questions until she returned, but it was too late. Marjorie was sound asleep.

* * *

Elisa had not been exaggerating when she had said there were things to be done. She immediately found Dr. Sato and gave solid, if untrue explanation for what had gone on: Marjorie, as Elisa had told Matt yesterday, was a friend of her sister, Beth, which is how they knew each other and how she knew to ask for her. She told the doctor that yes, Marjorie had been attacked but not by a group, as he had suspected, but also warned him not let anyone ask her questions until she returned, explaining that Marjorie wasn't in a state to talk about it yet.

She'd been relieved when he nodded in agreement, but thrown when he had asked "And what of her family?" Adding it to the list of things to see to, Elisa said something of checking into it before hurriedly taking her leave and rushing to the nearest payphone.

"Matt, I need a favor," she said immediately into the mouthpiece, not waiting for him to say hello.

Matt had grumbled about it being his day off at first, until Elisa began telling him the story she'd made from the one she decided made sense and the one that was real, at which point he sobered quickly. "Jeez, Elisa, of course. What do you need?'

"I need you to check out a Richard Campbell, of Avon-on Hudson from upstate," Elisa told him. "He's her father. I need to know who he is."

"You mean, how to contact him?" Matt asked confusedly.

"No, no," Elisa said, voiced troubled. "I need to find out more about him before I let him know where Marjorie is right now."

Before Marjorie began her story, Elisa had made sure to ask the essential questions about her: her family, her job, who she should let know she was in the hospital. And though it took away a lot of potential complications, Elisa was not comforted to hear that apart from her landlady Marjorie didn't have anyone that needed to be informed of her hospitalization. Not even her father, who was alive and well about three-and-a-half hours up the Hudson River.

"Well…don't you have to tell him his daughter's in the hospital?" asked Matt incredulously. "She's just a kid, right?"

Elisa allowed herself to grimace openly because she knew Matt wouldn't be able to see it. "I've been telling people I'm eighteen for the past three years, Elisa. In a month and a half it'll be true. Please, please don't bring my father into this," Marjorie had pleaded when Elisa had questioned her about it.

"Let me worry about that," she finally said. "The way she said it made alarms go off in my head. And I can't do anything more than she asks me to without knowing something about him first."

Matt gave a little sigh into the phone that sounded like a gale of wind through the phone. "Well, alright. What exactly do you want to know?"

"The basics. Criminal record, history—anything that stands out to you. Oh, but check on this first and get back to me right away, if you can," she added, hoping it sounded casual enough. "Check and see if he's done business with Xanatos Enterprises, or any of his shell companies, will you? If there's any connection between them at all?" Elisa had carefully watched Marjorie during the parts of the gargoyles' story that concerned Xanatos. As far as she could gauge, his mention hadn't had the jolt of a personal connection; Marjorie had only expressed a mild interest that it was he who had a hand in restoring the creatures she'd encountered briefly. Before today, Elisa reasoned, Marjorie had only known Xanatos as an eccentric billionaire with a castle over his head.

"You know, one day you're going to have to sit down and tell me why it is you have this insurmountable loathing for this Xanatos guy," Matt wearily complied.

"That day will be an interesting and memorable one indeed. Bye Matt." Elisa hung up the phone before he had a chance to say likewise.

* * *

Hours later Marjorie was still resting—not on a hospital bed, but on Elisa's cushioned couch in the middle of her Soho rooftop apartment. Dressed in the clothes Elisa had found in her bag in the clock and her arm now in a fresh cast, Marjorie looked entirely at peace. It had taken an almost inhuman amount of finagling to arrange it, but every loose end, save one or two, was squared away.

Contrary to what she'd thought, Dr. Sato had no serious qualms about releasing Marjorie into Elisa's care after she presented her case. He admitted though her arms would both need continuing medical attention, but with the blood transfusion completed (and, he added grimly, considering the circumstances) he saw no further reason for her to stay.

Working out the details of Marjorie's investigation with her captain had been a little trickier to manage. Elisa had pleaded openly with her Captain to persuade whichever investigators handling the attack to hold off on questioning Marjorie, the sole witness, for at least the time being.

"I took testimony from her this morning at the hospital," Elisa explained. "She's a wreck. She's so shaken up she's swearing up and down that she was attacked by a monster, not by a person. She needs time to process what actually happened before she can actually help."

That much had been completely true, at least.

Captain Chavez had been sympathetic and atypically understanding about granting Elisa's request. Elisa suspected that Chavez had been thrown (and perhaps, oddly touched) by Elisa's insistence that she not be a part of the investigation. Elisa's reasoning to the Captain had been she was needed more to take care of Marjorie for the time being, whom she had described as barely eighteen and already completely on her own.

As Elisa now nursed a cup of strong black tea in her kitchen (glancing from time to time at Marjorie to see if she was still asleep), she marveled at how easy it was to overlook the warm, compassionate woman that was under the tough, hard-nosed Captain she took orders from daily. It was either that, or she was going to have one heck of a favor to return down the line someday, Elisa thought wryly.

The phone rang. Elisa walked quickly to her bedroom and answered it, knowing who to expect. "Matt, hey. Did you find anything?"

"Nothing connecting anything to Xanatos, at least," Matt answered, sounding self-affirming. "Still checking up on the father, though."

"Mmm." Elisa answered reservedly: so much for that angle. As her thoughts drifted back to the oddest, inexplicable part of Marjorie's story—the suspicious letter that led her to the clock tower in the first place—Elisa was forced to concede that for now, she'd have to look elsewhere.

"About her father," Matt was saying. "Has she said anything about him? Marjorie, I mean?"

"I've asked her a bit more," Elisa said. "Why? Find something weird about him?"

"Sort of. He's a millionaire…or…Elisa, he's so rich I can't even tell how rich he is. It's entirely private, too—nothing traceable for me, no stock shares to speak of. You sure you gave me the right guy's name?"

"Yeah, Matt. I'm sure." It was hard to say exactly what had given Elisa sinister doubts about Marjorie's father. Something maybe about the way Marjorie's face took on a sort of practiced blankness when Elisa had asked about him, coupled with the fact of how young she was. In Elisa's everyday world, there were very specific reasons why young kids in the city lived on their own when they still had family around.

But this new information—it did nothing to alleviate her suspicions. If anything, it made them more sinister. She glanced at Marjorie, still sleeping deeply on her sofa. The runaway daughter of a millionaire, living out of a fiddle case? Who was this girl? How on earth did she get so suddenly mixed into this?

Noticing the dissipating sunlight, Elisa quickly ended the conversation by asking Matt to keep looking for anything he thought of as weird. He promised he would (a tad eagerly, she thought; perhaps there was a conspiracy afoot), and they both said goodbye.

The light in the sky faded, as if the sky were drifting softly to sleep. Elisa quietly went to her balcony and waited. She did not wait for very long.

* * *

There was a palpable silence after Elisa finished telling them everything, broken only by the wind rushing about the top of her building.

"I don't understand," Broadway finally said. "If she still has a father somewhere, then why is she all alone?"

Of all the questions to ask, it figured that the gargoyles' first concern would be family. Elisa's eyes flicked downward. "Nowadays, it's not uncommon for families to break apart." For the moment, she didn't care to explain further than that.

"It is this letter which bodes worse for me," Hudson spoke up (firmly ignoring Bronx, who fidgeted at his side, puzzled as to why he'd been taken out and forced to stand still on a cramped terrace instead of exploring Elisa's flat, which he had never visited before). "Yer certain the lass doesn't know were it came from?"

"She has no clue." Elisa sighed. "And for that matter, neither do I. I have Matt checking up on the father for me, but we can't rule out our favorite number one suspect just yet."

"Xanatos," Goliath said, his gravely voice tinted with contempt. "I have no doubts on believing him capable of manipulating an innocent. But it seems an unusual ploy, if he is behind it."

"Yeah," Brooklyn sardonically agreed. "They're usually more dramatic and far-reaching. And have robots."

"Believe me, we've learned time and time again how slippery Xanatos is. I wouldn't put him past anything, but I know Marjorie isn't in on whatever plot landed her in Manhattan General. She's just a kid."

"You seem pretty certain," Lexington observed, perched on the balcony.

"Cop instinct," Elisa said, flashing a humorous smile. "Never wrong."

"You sure your cop instinct is right about her wanting to see us again?" Brooklyn peered morosely though the glass into the darkened apartment, where he could see Marjorie sleeping under the soft glow of the lamp Elisa had left on. "She didn't seem so thrilled to see us the first time around."

"It's not exactly like that," Elisa said at once. "She never expected to see you there. She was beyond startled. Now that she's had a few things explained she wants to know more. She wants to understand. I mean, remember how I first reacted when I saw Goliath?"

Goliath wore a soft, rare smile. "Elisa is right. The fact that she's willing to meet with us after all that has happened to her allows us a greater chance at convincing her gargoyles mean no harm."

"I'm pretty sure Demona meant harm," Brooklyn said darkly.

"Which is all the more reason to make sure she knows we are friends," Goliath answered back immediately.

"That's going to be hard to do now thanks to Demona," Brooklyn fired back, voice rising in urgency if not in volume. "How could she look at any of us and not feel fear, because of her? We can't even say for sure what it was Demona was trying to do, or if she'll try anything again—"

From inside Elisa's apartment came the sound of two loud barks. At the same time, everyone noticed that Bronx was no longer with them on the terrace.

* * *

There was a soft whuffling in her face, puffs of warm air that smelled of animal. Marjorie sleepily reached out and patted the top of the head of Timber's grand Pyrenees, called Bridget, gently mumbling fond praises. Without bothering to open her eyes (God, she was so tired), she began to scratch behind the ears, the sounds of grateful panting just at her chin. She felt like a truck had run her over. Whatever movie they'd passed out in front of must have done a number to her head; her dreams had been filled with…

It was exactly at that point Marjorie realized two things: the pain she felt in her arm was actual pain, not the tingly kind she got from sleeping on it from too long like she thought she'd done, and that Bridget had apparently lost all her hair and had grown a small set of horns.

Marjorie opened her eyes to see a grinning blue gargoyle before her, tongue hanging halfway out its mouth in a contented, distinctly canine way. It had formidable teeth and ridges running down its back, with large ears that resembled webbed fins. It was built like a bulldog, if bulldogs were the size of motorbikes. Marjorie's hand had been automatically still scratching its head, and seeing her awake, it happily licked her full in the face, as if to reciprocate.

She had actually tricked herself into thinking it was all a dream, Marjorie marveled, wiping her face dazedly. She stiffly pulled herself up using her right arm, which was incredibly sore. The gargoyle watched with an air of expectancy, waiting for Marjorie to begin petting him once more.

The living room was empty, as was the kitchen. Two soft lamps lit the room apart from the lights of the surrounding city, but despite this it still seemed dark beyond the island of orange light that surrounded both Marjorie and the gargoyle. She looked back down from the couch. The gargoyle still stood in front of her, tail wagging slightly. "Um," she said to it. "Do you know where everyone is?"

The beast gave two sharp, throaty barks, turned and ran toward the glass doors just behind the couch that led to Elisa's patio, where if Marjorie had looked more closely she would have seen five large, winged shadows and a much slimmer, human-shaped one. Murmuring voices that Marjorie hadn't noticed faltered and stopped, until one low, slightly irritated voice hissed, "Broadway…weren't you supposed to keep an eye on Bronx?"

"Sorry," answered another voice.

Elisa stepped in from the cool night air and turned on the lights. Marjorie narrowed her eyes at the sudden light, but they widened almost immediately at the sight of who followed her inside. She'd gotten a good look at them during the day before she'd realized they were actually alive, but to see them in movement, in color, _breathing_—it was like seeing them for the first time. For the first time again, she sheepishly realized, remembering her first reaction with an internal flush.

Three of them (the youngest, Marjorie guessed) were grouped together, looking at her with unmasked interest. The other two, clearly older gargoyles regarded her much more somberly, though not unkindly. The blue gargoyle that had woken her up earlier returned to the side of the couch, and because she could see no reason not to, Marjorie began to stroke his head again. He grunted contentedly.

"Introduction time, guys," Elisa said, looking far more relaxed than Marjorie felt. "This is Marjorie Campbell," she said, gesturing towards Marjorie on the couch. "And Marjorie, this is Hudson, Lexington, Brooklyn, Broadway, and Goliath." She smiled. "And you've already met Bronx."

Bronx turned his head and licked Marjorie's fingers, causing Marjorie to smile. "I, uh, like the names. They're cool."

"We picked them out ourselves," said Lexington. The trio of gargoyles all smiled, and looked at Marjorie approvingly.

"Elisa has told us your story," the gargoyle that could only be Goliath rumbled in a deep, commanding voice. Marjorie suddenly felt extremely small. "We are deeply sorry for all that has happened to you."

Conscious of how pitiable she looked, she cast her eyes down. "It was…" she broke off, unable to think of what to say next.

"You must have questions for us," Goliath continued when Marjorie didn't say anything more. "Please, feel free to ask them now."

And Marjorie realized she did have questions, but they were energetic wordless things, like bursting like air bubbles in a boiling pot of water inside her brain. They weren't questions like How did you get here or Where did you come from, because Elisa had already answered those for her. She might have opened her mouth to explain this properly, but instead the words "Are you mad at me?" came out instead.

Everyone in the room stared at her.

Marjorie cleared her throat. "I mean, um. All that time you probably thought I'd report you, or something. I just burst in on your home, and I caused you trouble, like this…"

"Of course we are not angry with you, young one," Hudson answered bemusedly, the skin of his forehead wrinkling like old leather. "You have done us no harm. And we intend none to you."

Marjorie felt at once soothed and faintly embarrassed. Her question now seemed entirely silly, even to her.

"I brought this with," Lexington said suddenly, nimbly darting between wings and tails to Elisa's kitchen counter and back again, Marjorie's dinocam clutched in his fingers. "You dropped it, and I, uh, played around with it for a bit. I couldn't get it to work right."

Marjorie took the camera from his hands with pleasant surprise. She'd completely forgotten about it. "Thank you…Lexington."

Lexington smiled warmly. It was a smile Marjorie found easy to return. "Call me Lex."

"There are a few things I have yet to understand," Goliath remarked. "I am afraid I am missing something. Would you be willing, just once more, to tell the story of how you found us?"

At this, all the gargoyles cast a keen eye in her direction; Marjorie realized she wasn't the only one filled with fierce curiosity. So she took a deep breath, found her bearings, and began from the beginning she knew: of the letter, her sighting through the dinocam in Central Park, and her journey up to the clock tower. Strangely, she found she enjoyed telling it aloud to them. She didn't have to defend her story's legitimacy to them, or to herself—after all, _they_ knew it was all real. They knew about impossible but true things actually happening, they knew about magic. Saints alive, she thought with a suppressed shudder of thrill, that crazy world she'd talked with Lonan about was all real, and the magic too.

* * *

"…and that's the last we ever saw of it," Lexington concluded.

It was now very late into the night. After Marjorie had finished, as expected no one had been able to shed light on exactly who was responsible for the letter, or just how they would know to look for gargoyles in the 23rd NYPD clock tower three years before they'd ever been more than stone statues atop a castle in Scotland.

Marjorie was equally puzzled, but had more pressing things on her mind at the moment. She asked the gargoyles what they'd been doing in the time since they woke up, and how they enjoyed New York. There were stories to be told all around, but none were so eager as the trio to tell theirs. They entertained her with the things they'd done: thwarting robberies, attending concerts and movie screenings in secret, joining motorcycle gangs, and oddly enough, flying helicopters.

The earlier nervousness had all but vanished, until Goliath interjected suddenly.

"And I am afraid to ask, but…I must implore you to once again tell us what happened to you, concerning Demona. If there is a chance that Demona might act again, it is imperative for us to know anything you can tell us." Marjorie looked up with a small jolt. Goliath's face, so alien in appearance to her seemed so filled with human emotion: weariness, strength, but concern most of all. "Can you tell us what she said to you? Anything you may have missed telling Elisa?"

The room went silent. Marjorie bit her lip. "I think I already said everything that happened," she began quietly. "She said something about…ending the mewling of…humankind, I guess. Before she started speaking Latin, she said the night should listen to her, before she set it loose to…rip someone apart, maybe?" Marjorie made a stricken face. "I'm sorry, I'm not helping much…"

"What about after the spell?" Elisa asked. "What did she say then?"

Marjorie swallowed at the memory of Demona, lying on the floor covered in blood, then lunging at her, in the dark… "She kept asking me what I did," she answered finally, hands gripping her skirt tightly. "Like I'd done something. I didn't—I don't think so—maybe I did. It did seem to go wrong…" She looked up at Goliath hopelessly. "Does magic do that? Does it just go wrong for no reason?"

Goliath looked at a loss for what to say. "None of us are practicing sorcerers, lass," Hudson said, glancing from Goliath to Marjorie. "But I would say Demona has a habit of blaming humans for the things that go wrong under her wings."

"I knew Demona could have been behind that blackout," Brooklyn growled. "But this, Goliath…this goes too far."

For a moment, Marjorie witnessed such agony upon Goliath's features so deep and profound it spanned centuries, yet in the next instant it was replaced by the stoic and weary expression he had worn at the beginning of her story. "Indeed," he replied grimly. "Last night she caused endangerment to a great many."

"From what Marjorie said, it doesn't sound like Demona meant to cause that black out last night," Lexington pondered. "So the question is…what was she trying to do?"

"If we don't know what she wanted to do, at least we know she didn't do what she was _trying_ to do," Broadway added optimistically. Brooklyn frowned at this and seemed ready to say something, but Elisa shushed him. She was looking at Marjorie intently. Marjorie's face had gone white.

"Marjorie, what's wrong?" Elisa placed a hand on her shoulder. "Do you remember something?"

"I just remembered," Marjorie answered faintly, turning to look Elisa with wide eyes. "Before she left, she told me to tell her my name. She had her hand around my throat, and so I told her…" The open terror on her face was plain for all to see. "She knows who I am, Elisa. She's going to find me again."

"She will not," declared Goliath, releasing his wings to flare out and open, voice resolute and suddenly very loud in the silence that had filled the room before. He folded them back around himself, fixing Marjorie with a steely look she found impossible to look away from.

"You risked your life to help Demona, despite the wrongs she had done to you," he said, his gaze never leaving hers. "Your deed was brave, and compassionate. And since she will not repay you for your bravery, it falls to us." He kneeled before her in a bow with incredible grace. Marjorie was speechless. "I swear to you that my clan will not allow Demona, nor any other foe to harm you. You are under our protection, should you accept it."

A strong emotion welled up behind Marjorie's eyes and trembled in her chest. In the seconds that passed before she knelt down to eye level with Goliath to look him in the eye, the sound of Lonan's voice came to her across the connected line they'd shared in the rain: _I think…If I had had the chance to see it, to find it and know it for myself…I know I would've taken it, Marjorie. Back then, I know I would've._

"Thank you," she answered.


	6. Chapter Six

**Fairytale of New York**

**Chapter Six: Picking Up Where She Left Off**

A/N: Aww man, Gargoyles: Clan Building Vol. 2 and Gargoyles: Bad Guys are coming out soon!! Do you guys have your copies pre-ordered yet? Or are you the lucky duckies that got to go to SDCC and get your copies fresh from the copy machines? Don't spoil it for me, if you are!

I've noticed that I like to let chapters stew until I think they have the right amount of _stuff_. This one is much shorter than the other two, but there's some things that need building up to. And ah, fair warning to those of you residing in New Jersey: Elisa takes a jab at your home turf. I would go so far as to say she outright disses it. It's her opinion and not mine, I'm sure Jersey is a lovely place to be :I

EDIT: Seems there was a rather embarrassing inconsistency in my writing; Rodger's name would sometimes be spelled as "Roger." Technically they're both acceptable spellings, but that 'd' seems important to me for some reason, and to leave it out and put it back in as often as I have through these chapters is pretty lax. Oops! And thanks to the awesome MorphManiac, my newly established beta reader, for pointing this out to me!

* * *

"He was wearing a mask?"

Marjorie nodded. "A monster mask. I didn't see his face."

Detectives Chung and Harris paused and glanced at one another. "Did you see or hear anything about the man that attacked you?" Detective Harris asked. "Anything that would help you recognize him?"

Marjorie sat tense in her seat, wishing Elisa had been able to come in with her. "I don't think so. He—he didn't say much."

"What did he say?"

"It was in Latin," she answered. This was part of the story Elisa had helped her come up with. Neither of them liked the idea of lying to the police, but both knew perfectly well the truth would be no good. So they compromised and changed what little of it they could—Demona became a knife-wielding maniac in a monster mask, and the mysterious explosion was omitted altogether in favor of Marjorie blacking out, but all the other bizarre things—the candles, the owl, the Latin—stayed in.

"It matches the evidence," Elisa had reassured her. "Lying anymore than necessary will just complicate things."

"I'm sorry," Detective Harris said, causing Marjorie's heart to thump. "But I'm going to have to ask you what you were doing in the park so late at night."

Marjorie nearly winced. "I walk in the park at night all the time," she said, eyes cast down. "It never seemed dangerous before."

Detective Chung sighed. "You're lucky. There are a lot of people who have made that assumption and paid for it with their lives. You can never be too careful."

Marjorie nodded. She willed herself to make it though the rest of the interview, just to make it back out to where Elisa was waiting.

* * *

"Wow," Marjorie said, finally finding a little smile. "Kinda feel almost human again."

"It's the coffee. So juiced up it could raise the dead," Elisa said. Immediately after Marjorie finished speaking with the detectives, Elisa had driven her to the Green Lady diner, where they proudly served vegetarian omelets and heart-healthy cereal. Elisa ordered old-fashioned eggs and bacon for the both of them in spite of this.

While they waited for their food, Marjorie would meet her eyes and glance away, eyes never resting in one place for too long. Elisa had been watching her as unobtrusively as possible while they both waited for their coffee and eggs, noting with growing concern how often the girl's eyes skittered from place to place, as if her attention was drawn to things that weren't in the room.

There was a tension Marjorie carried now that hadn't been present earlier this morning, when the gargoyles had still been awake. She had chatted nervously but earnestly with the trio while stroking Bronx's ears, had asked curious questions of all of them, and listened to their answers, rapt, as Elisa served mug after mug of tea all around. Now that she was away from them, back in the thick of noise and bustling people in the sunshine, Marjorie looked pale and battered, eyes jumping at shadows. Marjorie looked like a victim, and Elisa couldn't stomach it.

"Marjorie. I asked this already, but think about it one more time. Are you sure you don't want to tell your family about this?"

To her mild surprise, Elisa saw Marjorie snap back into focus at her question and shrug, completely nonchalant. She held a spoon up to her ear as if it were a telephone. "Hi Dad, two nights ago I was attacked by an urban legend and somehow helped cause a Manhattan-wide black out. It's okay though, because I lied to the police about it and now everyone just thinks I've been brutally assaulted. How have you been for the past four years?" With a second, almost apologetic shrug, she hung up the spoon.

Elisa opened her mouth to say something she knew her mother would say, but fought it down. "It's good that you look at this with a bit of…humor," she said instead. "But everything aside, Marjorie…you shouldn't be alone for this. Do you have anyone?"

Without thinking, Elisa had stretched her hand across the table to hold Marjorie's in a comforting grasp. She only realized she was squeezing her hand when she saw Marjorie look down in surprise, as if she hadn't realized before now that hands could do that. After a tense moment in which Elisa wondered if she had made a mistake and should pull her hand away, Marjorie looked up with a smile—not a weak or slight one like the others, though it did seem to be trembling—uncertain, but bright and heartfelt.

"I do," Marjorie replied, a small knot in her voice. "I've got a friend who's always taken care of me. I told him to come here. You don't have to worry."

After a silent moment shared between the chatter of silverware and glass and voices of the diner, Elisa withdrew her hand, momentarily satisfied. "Alright. And you should know, I'm going to be there too. We all are. You made some good friends last night."

"I believe that," Marjorie said softly. "It's hard to believe a lot of things about yesterday, but I…thank you." Another moment of silence passed between them, much more easy than the first. The waitress approached them with a platter of eggs and shiny bacon in each hand, and both of them discovered how hungry they were.

"Morning, Elisa. Miss Campbell."

Elisa glanced over her shoulder to see Matt approaching from behind, his usual friendly expression somewhat subdued. He nodded his head respectfully in Marjorie's direction.

"Matt." Elisa greeted him, surprised. "I told you you didn't have to come by."

Matt shrugged good-naturedly. "Well, a man can't resist the coffee in this joint. Hear it's strong enough to wake the dead."

Elisa's eyes flicked to Marjorie just fast enough to catch the playful glance Marjorie had thrown at her. "This is Matt Bluestone, my partner. He's the one that turned me on to this place. Here for breakfast, Matt?"

"Here on business, actually," Matt continued, raising his eyebrows pointedly at Elisa. "Something turned up."

Elisa hastily swallowed. "Ah," she said clearing her throat. "All right then."

"You're leaving?" Marjorie asked surprised when Elisa stood up, eggs only partially consumed.

"Yeah, just some cop stuff," Elisa answered, sliding her arms back into her jacket. "But your friend is meeting you here soon, right?"

Marjorie nodded. "Yeah, any minute. Listen, I can get the check—"

"No, I'm getting it," Elisa said in a determinedly off-hand sort of way, the way her dad always did whenever they met for lunch. "You can call me if your friend has any…concerns. Or you can call," she said, giving Marjorie a serious, level stare. "Anytime."

Marjorie nodded, understanding what Elisa meant. Matt used the gravitas moment to take a slice of bacon from Elisa's plate, winking to Marjorie as he did so.

They said their goodbyes, and moments later the two partners were walking side by side, Matt gnawing on his bacon as stealthily as possible. "So…she seems fairly chipper," Matt remarked.

"I suppose it's a small comfort, considering," Elisa sighed. "But she's not okay yet. I think she'll get there, but not for a while." They'd made their way about half a block back from the diner, where Elisa's Fairlane was parked. "What did you find out?"

"Richard E. Campbell, born 1940, son of Edward Campbell. Mother was Amy Campbell, diseased 1991, in a car accident," Mat began, speaking over the din of Elisa's rattling keys unlocking the doors. While waiting for coffee, Elisa had asked Marjorie once more about her family and why she was living alone. Despite the mutual trust they both understood was needed between them, Elisa could sense that Marjorie extremely reluctant to answer.

The information Matt presented was stuff she already knew—she knew about Richard Campbell's wealth ("Grandpa invented...the little motors they put in pencil sharpeners, or can openers, or something... Dad never really told me. He inherited everything," Marjorie told her), and she also knew that somehow, Marjorie's mother's death was the catalyst that led Marjorie to come to New York on her own. Beyond that, however, Elisa's knowledge was limited—Marjorie asked to changed the subject, and Elisa didn't pry.

"But here's a weird thing: Amy Campbell wasn't her real name. She changed it from Thelma Strikton in '76."

Opening the car door, Elisa paused. "The year Marjorie was born."

"Which is not a big deal, no," Matt conceded, a strangely eager look on his face. "But there's more." Elisa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He gestured at the car, indicating he wanted to continue in private. Elisa complied, trying to ignore the air of conspiracy it implied.

"Okay. What?" Elisa asked when they both got in.

"Thelma didn't marry Campbell until '76, either," Matt continued. "Actually, she didn't marry him until after Marjorie was born—but that's not the weird thing. It's when you look at Campbell that things get really odd. Before he gets married to his wife and has a kid, he's living in the bad part of Jersey in a shoebox—"

Elisa raised an eyebrow. "The _bad_ part of Jersey?"

Matt rolled his eyes. "Fine. The _worst _part of the terrible, all-around bad, worst-place-ever New Jersey. So, he's dodging lease disputes and parking tickets and nearly drowning in credit debt. Then a little past the summer of '76 everything's coming up roses and he moves Thelma—Amy—and Marjorie into a fifteen bedroom mansion with prime views of the Hudson."

"Wait. A mansion? Marjorie didn't mention that."

Matt settled into the Fairlane's accommodating seat, clearly expecting the weight of his findings to ensure a lengthy conference. "Let me put it this way, Elisa—before Campbell came to town, Avon-on-Hudson had two five and dime stores and one movie theatre. Now it has a golf course and a private yacht club."

Elisa stared hard at Matt until she was convinced he wasn't pulling her leg. "Okay," she said, clinging to any excuse to dismiss the rising suspicion in her gut, "It's a little strange, but Marjorie did say he inherited a fortune from her grandfather. Maybe 1976 is when it happened."

But Matt was shaking his head triumphantly. "Edward Campbell died in World War II, Elisa, and I had a friend of mine check the records. Everything was left to Richard and his mother in '44."

"So that proves…what?" Elisa asked. "Maybe Thelma had the money, or there were complications with the patent of his dad's invention. I'm not exactly seeing the conspiracy your going for."

"I'm not _going_ for conspiracy," Matt retorted, sounding offended. "I'm finding one. For one thing, there is a patent under an Edward Campbell for a rotating…thingamajig that goes into small electric motors, but it was filed in '43, while he was in the war. And as unlikely as it sounds to me that Edward Campbell had the time to invent while skirmishing with Nazis in France, his son is even more unlikely. Think about it: I'm a multi-millionaire since before I can ride the bus to school, and I can live anywhere I want—and I choose Jersey?"

"…Maybe you're on to something here," Elisa said. She started the car and pulled away from the curb, mulling over Matt's findings. The more she thought about it, the guiltier she felt for asking Matt to check out Marjorie's parents; something told her that these were the dark family secrets Marjorie knew nothing about. Until she found out more, she'd keep it under her hat.

"So what'd you find out?" Matt asked after a considerable silence had passed. "I know this started as a way to check up on a girl you didn't know much about, but you've got me curious too. Who is this Marjorie Campbell, and what is she mixed up with?" He paused. "And…how do you know her again?"

"You know my sister Beth. I'd never met Marjorie before the other day, but I'd heard Beth talk about her." The lie was coming out good, credible, and smoothly. Just like she had settled with Marjorie before hand, just as she knew it would. Her mouth tasted slightly bitter from the coffee. "She came to the station to see me, but told me it wasn't serious, so I asked her to talk to someone else. I guess in the car I remembered something I'd heard Beth say, and instinct just…took over."

"I'll say," Matt answered. "Sometimes I think you drive with your eyes closed." Elisa shot him a withering stare. "So what exactly made you turn around?"

Elisa breathed a little easier. This much Marjorie had told her, and this much was the truth. "Real dramatic sounding stuff, you know? Her mom died when she was fifteen, coming to the city all on her own—" (Elisa looked at Matt instead of the road, despite his obvious discomfort), "She busks for a living. She plays the fiddle in the park and that's all she has to do to pay the bills."

"Kind of a vulnerable lifestyle," Matt stated.

"She's a good kid," Elisa said in response to the unasked question. "The only thing she's done wrong is not being careful enough. I'm more concerned about her father, now. What you've told me doesn't make me feel better. I mean, she insists she's not a runaway, but I know there's something she's not telling me."

Matt looked grim. "I know. It doesn't mean it's true, but…there's probably a reason she chose to be alone and in a town like this so young in life. And a man with her father's money…must have all the right connections, in a small place like that. Could be running was all she could do." Matt looked to Elisa. "So what are you going to do?"

Elisa flexed her fingers on the steering wheel. "Legally speaking, her father has to know she's been attacked…but he sounds too fishy. And she's eighteen in less than two months. I guess what I want to do most is just…keep her safe."

Matt gave a small chuckle. "Funny. I knew you were a big softie under all that tough, but I still didn't peg you for the mother hen."

Elisa smirked. "Cluck, cluck."

The surge of cars rolled forward, the beeps and honks of the surrounding swell unchecked and alive. If you let yourself, you could start to feel what the streets did. They connected and covered the island, and touched everywhere and surrounded everyone—the cops, the stock brokers, the cabbies, the powerful, the average, the invisible—and everyone else wedged in the cracks—and you remembered, how crazy this place was, how unlike the rest of everything else it could be.

"…Penny for your thoughts?" Matt asked.

Elisa glanced at him, a considering expression on her face. "You found out a lot for me on real short notice. It must have been a lot of work."

Matt shrugged and smiled warmly. "Don't sweat it."

"No, seriously. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Well, Maza, that's why they call 'em 'partners.' It's what they make 'em for."

* * *

After Elisa left with her partner, Marjorie stopped eating. She sort of half-heartedly pushed her eggs around on her plate with her fork, anxiously aware of the seconds stacking up to minutes as time passed, wishing it would slow down so she could think of what to say when Lonan walked in and saw her.

Because it was one thing, lying to well-meaning strangers in order to protect a secret they'd never believe anyway. It was a different thing to have to sit there as your best friend walks in and turns to see you, when you've never looked so battered and vulnerable in your life. Marjorie's heart shuddered with guilt to see the way Lonan's smile vanished and became a horrified blankness. It was terribly cruel of her not to forewarn him, but when she'd called him that morning she didn't have the strength to.

He shakily sat down in the puffy booth seat across from her. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

Marjorie was finding it difficult to meet his eyes. "I thought I'd say I fell down the stairs," she said with half-smile. "But then I thought, what about people that actually _do_ fall down stairs? What do _they_ say? It's not really fair when you think about it, because no one believes anybody when they say they…" Marjorie stopped when Lonan drew a trembling hand over his face and through his hair. A pained expression she'd never seen before crossed his face.

"Did someone hurt you?"

It felt like the most terrifying question anyone had ever asked her, and she hadn't expected him to ask it so soon. Lonan caught her gaze and held it with his own, and it was only for that she was able to nod and admit it. And as she nodded it was like a veil was lifted, and she saw Lonan's face as if she were only just now seeing it, as though before she'd only seen blurry photographs of it and now before her was the living, crystal clear Lonan, who always laughed louder than anyone in the room and who had always, always been there for her. A large sob welled in her throat.

"I'm sorry," she managed to say, her voice thick. "I should have said over the phone, but I didn't want to say it—"

"Don't," Lonan said. "Don't even do that."

Marjorie froze. Lonan's voice was rough, and his face had turned dark. But it must have been a shadow falling over his face, because when he looked back at her she could see no trace of the anger she'd heard in his voice.

"It was in the park two nights ago," she blurted suddenly. "A man in a mask pulled me into Belvedere castle…he had a knife. All he took was some blood, and I passed out…when they found me in the morning, he'd gone. I've been in the hospital, but I'm alright now…"

Marjorie hated how inscrutable Lonan's face had become; she wanted to take every word back. It felt like the wrong way to say it, if there was a right way. She had no idea what to do next.

* * *

Not long after, they left the diner together, and wordlessly began walking down the street.

The morning was becoming utterly surreal for Marjorie. It was too easy to write off what had happened to her as a dream, or a hallucinogenic vision quest—and Marjorie wished she didn't feel tempted to do so, but it was so _good_ to be walking in the sun down the street with Lonan, to pretend that her normal life hadn't been interrupted by the past few days. It was hard to accept the two realities as one, when it meant making things with Lonan so strange.

And that was the thing making it even more surreal. As they walked together down the street, Lonan kept an arm's width distance between them, and didn't look at her. She hadn't expected this at all. She'd expected questions, worried stares and expressions of relief at her survival. She would get all these things later in the future, from Rodger, and Timber and Sally, and Carol, and pretty much everyone else she knew on a first name basis. But the way Lonan was acting didn't make sense at all.

Anxiety clawing away in her stomach, she began to explain about Elisa to fill in the rest of the story. Just as she reached the point where Elisa left the diner before Lonan arrived, Lonan broke the silence. "You spent all of last night with a cop?"

Startled, Marjorie turned and was incredibly, ridiculously relieved to see Lonan's unreadable, closed expression replaced with clear eyes, and open, if subdued, curiosity. "She took care of me. She's—she's just wonderful, and—and I know her sister, so that's why she—"

"I want to meet her," Lonan said simply, looking away again. "To have a talk with her."

"…Okay," Marjorie replied, feeling deeply uncertain. "She gave me her phone number—"

"No. I'm going to her station after I drop you off," he interrupted again. The fact that he wasn't even looking at her while saying this inspired a strangely sharp frustration in Marjorie that didn't mix well with the anxiety already stewing in her chest. "I'll need to see those detectives working your case, too."

"What are you talking about?" Marjorie increased the pace of her steps to try and get in front of him, but to her vexation Lonan walked faster. "Lonan!"

He stopped, but didn't turn around. She marched up to him, trying to swallow a growing panic she couldn't deny or explain. "What's wrong with you?" His face was unreadable again. Every time she moved to try to catch his eye, he looked away, as if she wasn't even there. "Lonan, please, why are you so—"

"You took your sweet time getting her here," Rodger said from right behind her, and it seemed like the frantic energy of the last few moments cracked and fell like glass around her feet, replaced complete stupefaction as she whirled around to see Rodger, looking as calculatingly casual as ever, stop dead in his tracks as he caught sight of her. Without her even realizing it, Lonan had led her to the NYU auditorium where she had rehearsed Rodger's rock opera just two days before.

Rodger's mouth opened, but before he could say anything Lonan swiftly strode up to him and gripped his shoulder, stooping a bit to say something Marjorie couldn't hear in Rodger's ear. Then, with just a backward glance at Marjorie, he turned away and left. As she watched him go, stunned, she couldn't help but think he was walking as if he were struggling against something, like a cold wind he was determined to push though.

Rodger moved closer then, and he began to ask all the questions she'd expected Lonan to ask. And as she began explaining what had happened to her, Rodger did all the things she expected—the gentle hug, the concerned glances, and even, bless him, pulling out a handkerchief—and Marjorie was grateful that she wouldn't have to make up an excuse for the tears that had begun to roll down her face because naturally, Rodger expected her to cry. But she was more grateful that those tears didn't give away the new pain she felt, the giant hurt that she had never thought to expect.

* * *

When looking back on this day, most unmemorable for most living in the city in this story, it is important to remember these two things.

One of them is a girl, hurt and hurting but safe, only half-miserable, sleeping with the light on in her cheap studio apartment under the Manhattan Bridge. She isn't alone tonight; there's a pale, dreamy-looking girl with long blonde hair curled up on the bed with her. This girl writes poetry and paints light, airy pictures; she's called Sally. Nearby, sitting backwards in a chair while not really reading Mary Shelly's _Frankenstein_ is another girl, hair short and spiky, muscled arms covered in fishnet gloves and old leather. She smells like smoke and kohl, and her feet in heavy combat boots softly tap the floor as she glances from her book at the two girls on the bed. She's called Timber.

She starts when she things she sees something out the window, she whispers to Sally who sits up and peers out, but sees nothing. They both agree they're both a little wound up, and decide it's time to call it a night before they wake up their friend.

The second thing to remember is what Timber sees out the window. He glides back to the ledge of the bridge where his bigger, but not older brothers are waiting, and tells them what he saw through the window. A few words are spoken before the break off from each other and slip through the sky around the building, as quiet as shadows. They land on the roof, take off, and circle the building several times. They meet back at the bridge and remain there, keeping a constant watch all around, until the sky begins to lighten and they one by one climb up the bridge and glide away. It is important to know that they were there, but it is also important to remember what they were looking out for.

Because she wasn't resting that night.

And she remembered everything.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Fairytale of New York**

**Chapter Seven: An Extended Recovery  
**

A/N 3/05/2010: Hey everyone, I'm alive! And not a completely new chapter, sorry about that. :( But it's getting there! I just have to deal with the fact that I write long, involved chapters. That's sort of the problem, I felt, with this one. I submitted it feeling like it should have more to it, yet not knowing what, and surprisingly I had other things I planned on including later on that fit this part of the story much better. So a lot of it is the same, but I think I may have made it twice as long with new stuff, so...yay?

Standard excuses: busy, college, busy, real life, blah blah blah. But I'm so close to finishing the next chapter! Maybe by the end of the month, we'll see! Leaving my old chapter intro below this one because message is still relevant message. :3

A/N ****: I just want to spread the word ala Greg Weisman: if you haven't heard already (doubtful), Greg has recently been involved in producing this wonderful show about a superhero with spider powers. Lives in New York, makes the neighborhood friendly, is rather amazing? Ring any bells? If not, you should really be watching and if so, you should be watching even more! The show is The Spectacular Spider-Man and it is, without any shadow of a doubt, the best Spider-Man adaption _ever_--it beats the 90's, it beats Toby McGuire--it just rocks.

And because of a lot of factors (poor airing choices on Disney's behalf, the economy, Disney buying Marvel) the show is in a toss-up position regarding it's renewal for a 3rd season. Believe me, everyone misses out if this show isn't continued. So please--go out and buy season one. It's 13 episodes for $20 at Target, and it is worth so much more. I think they may still be showing episodes on their secondary channel (Disney XD --as in DIS-KNEE EX DEE and not Disney omghappysmileface!!!), and if you don't want to go out and buy something you've never seen, then watch what's going on. I promise you'll want more. Okay? Okay. Now to the fic, and thanks!

* * *

There was a press release concerning Marjorie's attack in the newspaper the next day. It read:

_A great Manhattan Monument was seriously defaced last night; a young woman walking in Central Park was forced into the second floor room of Belvedere Castle and attacked with a knife between the hours of 4 to 5 A.M. on Thursday, the 28th of April. Police found the victim not long after power was restored to Manhattan, when operators noticed Belvedere Castle's security alarm was sending out an alert. Investigators on the scene reported massive damage to the stone foundation and ceiling support of the second floor room and are withholding details of the attack until a further date, stating only that the victim has suffered no severe injuries and has even been released from Manhattan General. However, there have been accounts of "occult-like" evidence found at the scene of the crime, including reports of a cauldron, candles, and medieval dagger, prompting rumors of a ritual killer. Currently there are no suspects._

"What bullshit," Timber fumed.

Sally looked up from the eggs beginning to sizzle in the oversized iron skillet. "Timber, she's still asleep. You should keep it down."

"But it is," Timber insisted, her voice only lowering only marginally. "Somebody was attacked! She could've died! Who the hell gives a damn about Belvedere Castle? And this garbage about 'no severe injuries'—what _asshole_ could take a look at that girl and say she wasn't hurt?"

Sally bit her lip and peeked out of the kitchen, turning back to Timber when she'd made sure the bedroom door was still closed. "It's probably a short way of saying she wasn't killed," Sally soothed. If Timber's voice was always serrated and raucous, Sally was the opposite: she always sounded soft and comforting, like a down pillow that could talk. "Don't let her see you get carried away."

"I know," Timber said glumly. It was earlier than she was used to; she hadn't even caked on her makeup yet. Without it she felt puffy and cranky, and that was the least of what was bothering her. "But this is way too weird. I can't get past the way they talk about the occult stuff—it's like they're dressing this up to be a cheap paperback." Timber dropped the paper on Marjorie's table, disgusted.

"But it did happen," Sally answered, her voice sounding faint. "If it's the truth, they have to report it." Timber saw Sally's hand dart up to wipe something from her eye, but Sally turned around and her face was dry. "Eggs are done."

The kitchen was so small that when Sally turned towards Timber to scoop the eggs on her plate she had to lift the pan over her head so as not to hit Timber with it. With a grace that Timber could neither comprehend nor replicate, Sally gingerly lifted the trembling eggs with the spatula and set them on the plates, perfectly centered and perfectly cooked.

"I just hate they way they put it," Timber mumbled. "Calling her 'the victim' over and over."

"I know," Sally whispered, and this time it was Timber who stood and wiped with gentle fingers under Sally's eyes—tenderly, but clumsily; and for that, it was all the more comforting.

* * *

"I'm telling you, we'd get there so much faster if we hitched a ride on top of that L train that just went by—"

"And how would we get off again, huh? There's not enough room to maneuver _through_ the bridge, on the train, and off again! You want us to get squished like pigeons when we go through a tunnel?"

"Pigeons don't ride on top of subway trains!"

"Exactly! They're smart enough to know they'd get squished!"

Brooklyn gave a suffering sigh as the three gargoyle brothers landed heavily onto one of the center towers of the Manhattan bridge. "Cool it, guys. We're already half way there."

"I wish she didn't live so far out," Broadway said, stretching his wings slightly and then finally resting them. "Brooklyn's pretty far from the clock tower, and gliding from tower to tower like this is a pretty tough commute."

"It's only because tonight there isn't much wind," Brooklyn said. "It won't always be like this."

"I'm telling you, it's just physics." Lexington huffed. "If we get enough height to dive _down_ to the trains until our speed is equal, we land with no problem, and then get off in minutes." Brooklyn had lost count of how many times Lexington had proposed his hypothesis, but he knew he was still as unconvinced as the first time he heard it. Brooklyn was the first to proclaim his lack of fear in the face of danger, but nose-diving for a speeding subway car through crisscrossing bridge cables was pushing it, and he said as much.

"Fine," Lexington finally grumbled.

For a peaceful, refreshing moment, there was silence atop the bridge. Though the night wasn't windy it was clear, and the city hung crisp and bright on the dark water beneath them.

"Do you think she'll be by herself tonight?" Broadway asked.

"Maybe," Brooklyn answered, peering off to the edge of the river. "Either way, we better get there soon. C'mon, the wind's picking up."

They took off again, and were immediately propelled upward. While they rested the wind had grown stronger, taking them far above the bridge and allowing them to glide past it with ease.

"Is that her?" Lexington asked suddenly, pointing to the rooftop of the building they'd guarded last night. Brooklyn started in the air; he'd been so enjoying the quiet and the relief of the wind carrying him he'd completely missed the lone figure standing on the rooftop they were drawing nearer to every second.

"I think it is," Broadway said, and he pushed forward before Brooklyn had a chance to caution him, Lexington close on his heels. Luckily for them, it was indeed Marjorie—wrapped up in a shabby afghan, shielding her eyes from the bright orange streetlamps from below.

"Hullo," she greeted them as they landed before her.

"How are you feeling?" Lex asked.

"My arm's itching like crazy," she said with a wry smile. Brooklyn thought she looked a bit better than the last time he saw her—less nervous, anyway—but it was easy to see that she was worn around the edges. "Um…did you all just wake up?" she asked, a little awkwardly.

"Not too long ago," Broadway answered.

"We started over to see you—we did last night too," Lexington said. "But there were other people here."

"Yeah," Marjorie muttered. "Sally and Timber. They were here all day too."

The trio exchanged a glance of confusion at this. "And that's…a bad thing?" Brooklyn asked, at the same time Broadway said, "They looked like they were friends of yours."

"Oh, they are!" Marjorie immediately said, as though she'd realized how listless her voice had been. "And…I probably needed them last night. I guess I'm not used to having somebody take care of me like that."

The gargoyles exchanged another meaningful glance among themselves. They were trying not to be nosy about it, but for their own separate reasons they were all very curious about the life Marjorie led. Brooklyn would be the first to admit that as quickly as he'd adjusted to his new home in Manhattan, he didn't "get" how some things worked among humans. Back in Scotland, playing music for coin was a legitimate trade—so why was Elisa so obviously mystified by Marjorie doing the same thing now, in Manhattan?

But it had been that last remark that each gargoyle felt most keenly. Humans could chose to be alone, but that didn't mean it made sense to them.

"That's what clans do for each other," Broadway said, sounding a bit too much like he thought the idea never occurred to Marjorie for Brooklyn's taste.

"Clans," Marjorie repeated.

"Clans," Broadway affirmed. "You know, family, friends—Us and Goliath, Hudson, and Bronx—we're a clan. And clans help you out."

"Uh…I don't know if I'd call my friends and I a 'clan,'" Marjorie said with a thoughtful smile. "That word's kind of picked up a few negative connotations over the centuries, y'know? But I get it." She nodded. "It just bothers me, that I can't tell them I'm okay."

"Why not?" Brooklyn asked, stepping down from the ledge.

Marjorie considered them for a moment, and looked suddenly very happy. "I've got about a month's worth food in my tiny fridge right now," she said as she gestured towards the roof door behind her. "And if I don't manage to eat half of it by the next time Sally comes over and cooks, I'll have to buy another one just to keep it all, or something. Wanna come inside and help me eat it?"

To the ears of three gargoyles that had missed out on a proper breakfast upon waking up, Marjorie couldn't have phrased her question more beautifully.

* * *

Marjorie realized when she woke up that morning to Sally's eggs and Timber's devil-may-care grin that the routine she'd been accustomed to was going to change. She wasn't going to be playing fiddle any time soon, obviously, and there were some practical issues to work out—finding money to pay rent, living expenses, (and the really, really annoying itch just below the point were she could scratch under her cast) and other trivial things were just the start.

"Morning," Timber called, reaching up to remove a mug from the hat rack Marjorie had hung above the kitchen table. "Black, or with sugar?"

"I drink tea," Marjorie answered though her yawn, glancing out at the bright white morning outside the window. The ground outside was wet, but the sky looked as dry as bleached bone.

"Wuss," Timber chided, pouring some coffee anyway. "This is what you really need."

Marjorie watched Sally and Timber in the kitchen from her place on her sofa in the living room, amused. She was certain that Timber was only sitting at Marjorie's excuse for a kitchen table out of her characteristic need to be difficult; Marjorie had been in telephone boxes more spacious.

Like most of the things she found appealing, the fact that she loved how oddly small her kitchen made no sense to any of her friends. Truth be told, Marjorie couldn't exactly guess why her kitchen was so small, especially when the rest of her flat was huge—her building, easily the oldest on all of Gracie Street, had originally been a shipping storehouse in the days before the Manhattan bridge, when DUMBO was still a shipping dock. When the docks closed and the areas of commerce shifted, the homely warehouses were renovated into studio apartments—cheap and drafty, perhaps, but big.

Marjorie's flat had two bedrooms—a smaller one that she used herself, and a larger one she kept for friends when they slept over. Most of the space was given to her living room, the greatest envy of her friends—the room could easily swallow the midtown apartment Rodger and Lonan shared together.

That was what made the size of her kitchen (and her bathroom, which attached to the kitchen by a rickety door and was only slightly bigger by the virtue of having a small shower and a toilet in it) so very odd. There was enough space in her living room to park a small elephant, but if you weren't careful when you used the stovetop you'd bang your elbow into the sink faucet. Marjorie cast a troubled glance towards her friends. Sally had always told Marjorie she hated to use her tiny kitchen.

"I'll have French toast out in a minute," Sally called stooped over the stove. "Marjorie, where do you keep your syrup?"

Marjorie rubbed her eyes as Timber sauntered over with a plate of eggs and a mug, bringing them to the coffee table so she could eat them on the couch. "Better save room," Timber advised, giving Marjorie's shoulder a little squeeze.

"Marjorie?" Sally asked again. "The syrup?"

"It's in the soy sauce bottle," Marjorie said.

"Uh…say what?" Timber asked, halting her steps. Sally stopped her business at the stove and peered out the kitchen curiously.

Marjorie was staring at her eggs, her hair obscuring part of her face. "It was a prank I was going to pull on Lonan," she said blankly. "The next time he came over to cook."

There was a pause as Timber and Sally exchanged uneasy glances. They looked away quickly, but Marjorie had already seen it: Rodger must have told them about Lonan. To spare them further awkwardness, Marjorie took a swig of coffee and made an exaggerated face of disgust.

"Don't you turn your nose up at that, it's good beans!" Timber exclaimed, affronted. "I even put sugar in it for you, you lightweight!"

Marjorie laughed, and laughed again later when Timber complained loudly that the French toast tasted "all Asian-y now." It was a slow Saturday morning, filled with small chat, inside jokes, and Sally's expert cooking. It exactly like the mornings the three of them were very used to spending together after the old moving-watching, binge-eating, popcorn-fighting nights they always had.

But Marjorie had to pretend not to notice, when Timber stealthily removed a page from the morning paper. And that was how she knew that something more significant had changed in her life—and unlike all the other changes she could name, this one seemed like the one she was least prepared to handle.

* * *

"I know I'm missing out on something here," Lexington said, cupping his mug of cocoa with a pensive look on his face. "But I still don't understand why your friends worrying about you is a problem."

"It's not a problem," Marjorie answered, frowning to find the words. They sat together on large tasseled cushions around the coffee table, a fresh mug of cocoa each. The coffee table had been pulled to the center of the living room floor, where all that remained of Sally's cooking spree lay in crumbs on Marjorie's mismatched china.

"Then what is it?" Brooklyn asked.

Marjorie had danced around the subject throughout dinner (or breakfast, depending on your point of view), but now she looked pinned, staring down into her mug as if hoping to find what to say inside of it. "Admittedly, I've never been attacked before," she began softly. "But the friends that are the most…freaked out by this are the same ones I met when I was still a kid. And they were fine then with letting me take care of myself, but now…" Marjorie glanced ruefully down at her cast. "They'll probably treat me like I'm made of glass from now on."

"When someone you care about gets hurt, you want to be there for them. It's normal." Despite himself, Brooklyn realized he was also beginning to sound like he was explaining something simple to someone who'd never thought about it before, like a clan-mentor telling a hatchling fire would burn, or not to jump off a cliff without checking the wind first.

Marjorie shot him a slightly irritated, slightly bemused look. "Alright. I'll tell you about something that's definitely _not_ normal."

* * *

Marjorie's conclusion had been earlier re-enforced when Carol came to see her that morning. Marjorie answered the door and for the second time in less than a month she saw Carol awake before noon, but this time instead of a bathrobe Carol wore an elegant black turtleneck and a frown. "You all alone?" she asked, almost berating, before Marjorie could say hello.

"No, we're here, Ms. Ildia," Sally said from down the hall, barely audible over Timber's enthusiastic "Yo! Madame Troubadour!" from the living room.

"Good," Carol nodded curtly. She turned her attention back to Marjorie, who really wished she wasn't still wearing her silly cow pajamas. "I came to talk to you about the rent this month."

"Oh, I have it right in my—" Marjorie said, turning towards the dresser lined up further back in the hallway, but Carol shook her head sternly.

"I'm here to tell you I'm not taking it," she said. "You need that money until your hand heals up."

"You don't need to do that," Marjorie said quietly, after taking a second to make sure she'd heard Carol correctly.

"Oh? You got some other way of paying rent besides playing that fiddle of yours?" Carol asked, not bothering to keep her voice low. Marjorie could almost feel Sally and Timber's attention zeroing in on them. "You worry about rent when you can get back to earning it."

"But I've got my savings account still," Marjorie said, allowing a little more force in her voice. "I can use that for bills for a while, and a few months rent too, so I don't have to be behind."

Carol fixed Marjorie with a stare. It was a stare Carol had given her only once before, when she'd first moved into the building. If this stare possessed the power of speech, it would say, Young Lady, Don't You Make Me Give You This Look A Second Time.

"We'll worry about rent when you can use that arm again," she said, walking to the stairwell door, the matter clearly closed. She paused with her hand on the door handle and looked back. There was a look that flashed across her face that Marjorie was beginning to recognize; Carol's eyes were unusually glassy and seemed to have a hard time meeting her face. "You come by my office sometime today, Marjie-jo," she said. "I wanna sign that cast."

And then Carol was gone, leaving Marjorie alone in the slanted-floored hallway. "…_Marjie-jo?_" Marjorie mouthed.

* * *

Brooklyn, Broadway, and Lexington looked at her blankly.

Seeing as her story made no impression, Marjorie sighed in defeat. "Okay, if you guys had any experience with New York City rent or landlords than that story would have carried a lot more weight, believe me."

"We do believe you," Broadway said quietly. "I guess it's strange for us because, well…you say it bothers you when your friends worry over you, when I guess we're here doing the same thing."

Marjorie felt a tiny jolt of shock and at once glanced from Lex to Broadway to Brooklyn—all whom were wearing slightly abashed expressions, looking either into their empty mugs or fidgeting their fingers.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, Broadway, no." Brooklyn looked up fast enough to see Marjorie wipe something quickly from the corner of her eye. She was smiling at each of them—a trembling smile, the same she had given to Elisa.

"You—all of you—are the reason I'm okay. And I don't like my friends being this way because…I can see that they're hurt. They hurt because they think I'm hurt." She peered at them through the stray tufts of curls that had a habit of creeping down over her face. "They feel hurt for me and if I told them I was okay…they wouldn't believe me."

None of the trio said anything. They didn't need to; at last they had reached a middle ground of understanding, and knew that listening had been enough.

"So…" Marjorie said brightly. "Ice cream?"

* * *

The following month was an interesting time for Marjorie. As she no longer needed to wake up early to grab a prime busking spot—and as she couldn't play at all—she found herself with an extraordinary amount of free time.

Her friends made sure to take up a good chunk of their time, as Marjorie suspected they would—Sally and Timber dropped by most weekends and the odd afternoon they had between their classes and work. Roger, though he was extremely busy and stressed with his new production (which was continuing fine without her, though he was sore to admit it) went out of his way to help her carry groceries back to her sixth-story apartment (a fact he expounded upon at length at each new flight of stairs). On Thursday evenings Carol had taken to inviting her to her office to play mahjong with a group of Carol's poet circle.

In fact, Marjorie had someone stopping by everyday for the first two weeks after her attack. Not just her closest friends, but people she had before that point had considered merely acquaintances: Jill Peterson, the director of Saint Damien's soup kitchen and aid center, stopped by with daisies and reassurances that when Marjorie felt up to it, she'd be welcomed back with a party; Kenny the comic artist down the hall drew her a charming get-well card with a caricature of herself and her fiddle on the front of it; all the members of Kiss'n'Spit, the folk and blues group she partnered with from time to time when they needed the extra fiddle, came by her apartment in person and presented her with a tape they'd mixed just for her.

There was no sign of Lonan.

Lonan was only mentioned once, and only once, in a twelve-minute conversation. It went like this:

"Hey, put that knife down. I'm about to say something you won't like to hear."

Marjorie looked up, bleary eyed, from a cutting board of massacred onions. "I'm not as abusive as you are, Rodger." Still, she set down her chopping knife and cleared the moisture from her eyes with the base of her palm. It was the eleventh day after her attack, and Rodger had just helped her with her groceries up the stairs. By way of reward, Marjorie had been making him lunch (in reality she was paying him back for the way he had complained at each step; the three-bean soup she had on the stove didn't really need more onions but she knew he hated the smell).

Rodger leaned on the molding by the lip of her kitchen, looking somber. He said nothing to her with a meaningful look, and Marjorie stiffened, turned, and glared out her kitchen window.

"He's sorry," Rodger said. "I think he's an idiot too, but all this messed up stuff—he's not trying to hurt you."

"What am I even supposed to think…" Marjorie now deeply regretted the onions. She squeezed her eyes shut. "Why did he just go like that? Why would _anyone_ just—"

Marjorie didn't say anything for the next seven seconds.

Rodger drew a deep breath, hesitated for two seconds, and spoke. "I'm his best friend," he said. "And you are too. And I know you still think he's a good guy—and he is—but we are members of a very exclusive club: the people that he actually gives a damn about. Don't look like you don't know what I'm talking about; you know how messed up he was as a kid, what his family put him through. So, think."

"Think about what?" Marjorie asked, after fifteen seconds of blinking and shifting from foot to foot, in a poorly constructed attempt to look as though she didn't know what he was talking about.

Again, Rodger hesitated for two seconds. "He tells me things he tells no one else," he continued. "but he tells you more. He actually answers about stuff when _you_ ask. You know more about his messed up life than anybody. Can't you just…work out for yourself why he's acting like this?"

Marjorie swallowed. "Are you saying that I shouldn't have told him…?"

"No, no, I don't mean that." Rodger spent the next six seconds putting his words in the right order. "Do you remember…" His arms lifted and he gazed absently at a point somewhere beyond her kitchen wall, and then he faltered, and lowered them. He began again, now fixing Marjorie with a stare so serious she swore that it had physical weight. "Do you remember that week when I had to get stitches a year ago because I got my side sliced open by a speeding bike messenger? Well, that was a lie. I got knifed in a bar."

Marjorie's nod transformed into a stunned recoil, as Rodger pushed on, all in under one second: "We both decided to lie about it because of what happened. That night this guy was there—he'd always hassled Lonan at his shows there, and whenever I was there it was worse, but this time I guess he was piss drunk. So he called us fags and I—well, what I had to say back didn't help, but he pulled a knife and—yeah, well, he mostly missed."

"Wait, wait—hang on—" Marjorie held up her hands, but almost remorselessly, Rodger kept on: "But—I got off easy. Lonan nearly killed the guy. I've never seen him like it since. It was more than anger. It was…berserk. He didn't stop…" He blinked and looked Marjorie directly in the eyes. Each word seemed to have an odd ringing quality in Marjorie's ears.

"There's something…wrong in him. That's when I knew I was important. I was barely grazed, but I guess because I was in real danger, I guess…he couldn't handle that. He was unhinged. That's just how he is, I think, with the people that matter. So, with you…" He paused for three seconds, and didn't finish the sentence. "He didn't get arrested because when the cops showed up the bartender stepped in and said it was self defense, but…" He trailed off. He looked at her with an emotion that, for him, was even more rare than discomfort: guilt.

"He'd hate that I just told you all that," he said.

Marjorie was speechless. She ran her right hand through her hair, eyes wide and unseeing out her kitchen window. "What…" she finally said. "How is that supposed to make me feel better…" And she knew she was crying.

Rodger hugged her as she, for just a moment, latched on to him and tried not to imagine Rodger huddled on a dirty floor, bleeding, tried not to imagine the panic and the fury of those moments when a knife had flashed between her and her own life though Rodger's eyes...Two minutes passed.

"You're not allowed to lie to me anymore," Marjorie said, her voice hard and thick through her tears. "I mean it."

"I know," Rodger promised.

"And what does he tell you that he doesn't tell me—?"

"Shh, shh."

"I'm not really—_these stupid onions_—"

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up now."

Marjorie served him two bowls of soup before he left, almost an hour later. They talked in calm, subdued voices, about the weather and Rodger's show, and what books they had read lately, and who they had bumped into yesterday at the corner, the twelve minute conversation eerily hanging in the air above them like a dusty, dim chandelier—detached from them, easy enough to avoid with the eye, yet an immovable part of the atmosphere.

Other than that sliver of unhappiness, Marjorie was as cheerful as her normal self. The attention she was receiving no longer bothered her; whatever it was that had disturbed her about it before was gone after the night she had dinner with the trio, and now she could no longer even understand why she had been bothered in the first place. As far as she was concerned, she was in the clear and had nothing further to worry about. Perhaps her friends noticed this happy assurance, and if they were surprised by it they kept it between themselves—either way, they seemed to worry about her less, and that in turn only improved Marjorie's good mood.

Her friends did wonder, though, about what she did at night. Each time they'd invite her out Marjorie would graciously decline, claiming she already had plans with a different friend or that she'd rather stay in. Her friends, Roger, Sally, and Timber especially, all worried that this was because she hadn't fully recovered from her attack and accepted her excuses without much protest. They kept their peace, however, because whenever they saw Marjorie she seemed full of a genuine ease and lightheartedness, and soon enough stopped asking her out after dark.

* * *

If the days following Marjorie's attack were peaceful and carefree, Elisa's life was about as inversely complicated.

The way in which Marjorie's case had been handled was a bit unusual. Because of Elisa's request the testimony required from Marjorie came a day late, Elisa had stepped in and interfered in a case she wasn't assigned to. Technically her request went in to the captain before any charges were filed, but still—a bit odd, and that's probably why Chung and Harris asked to talk to her at her desk with coffee not long after she returned to the station with Matt from the diner.

"And how is it you know her again?"

Harris wasn't writing this down. This was just a casual conversation between detectives, a free exchange of information. Elisa knew: the suspicious glances as Chung and Harris cast in her direction were only in her mind.

It still didn't help with the guilt of lying to them. Not much.

"She's been a friend of my sister's for a while. I might've mentioned Beth—she's in school in Arizona now."

"And you never met her before the night of her attack?" Chung was perched halfway onto the desk opposite hers. Harris loomed (in a non-threatening way, of course) to her side, loudly sipping his coffee from time to time.

"No," Elisa answered. "She came up to me and told me who she was, how she knew Beth, and all that."

That caught Chung's interest. "She didn't mention coming to see you before," he said. "What did she want?"

Whoops.

"I…I guess I don't really remember. I was in a hurry to get somewhere with Matt," she said, hoping the pause in her speech wasn't too noticeable.

Harris looked at Chung. Chung looked at Harris. There was some silent communication that Elisa wasn't privy to. Elisa tried not to shift in her seat. Is this what it felt like in the interrogation room? She knew she was hiding something, but the level of discomfort she felt sitting at her own desk like this was ridiculous. She'd have to think of something quick to get them gone.

"It's just that these cases get dismissed so often as random attacks," Harris said as he turned to look at her again, his mind-meld with Cheng apparently over. "But this guy in the mask, and all the voodoo crap recovered indicates that this guy—"

"—is a complete nut job," Chung interrupted. "I—we—think that maybe this guy could be someone who knows Campbell. Could be he lured her out there and then attacked her. Her story about just strolling though Central Park in the wee small hours of the morning sounded a bit…rehearsed."

_Ouch_, thought Elisa. _Either Marjorie was exaggerating about her experience with the theater or these guys are better than I thought._

"It's just a theory," Harris said, sounding a bit irritated. "Anyway, we're looking into all the leads we can. If you can remember if she wanted from you, it could help point us in the right direction."

"Because she's just a kid," Chung said solemnly. "You know her personally Maza, and it's tough knowing she got hurt. But we'll catch this sicko."

Elisa considered this, and then nodded. "If I remember anything, I'll tell you."

"Please do," Chung sighed. "This case is going to be hard enough even _with_ any leads that might turn up."

"I just hope she doesn't have a boyfriend," Harris muttered tiredly as they walked away. "Hate to bow to stereotypes, but these runaway girls always have a psychotic boyfriend looking for payback…"

Elisa felt a twinge of indignation on Marjorie's behalf and wanted to say this was unfair, but thought better of it, as she'd been trying to get rid of them for the past ten minutes anyway.

_Not bad guys_, she found herself thinking as she returned to the significant pile of paperwork she had to file for her own involvement in Marjorie's case. _Probably good detectives, too. Let's hope they're not _too_ good…_

She had all of three and a half minutes to consider this and begin her paperwork anew when another voice interrupted her.

"You Elisa Maza?"

Elisa looked up. Sid Vicious was standing tensely in front of her desk.

No, that wasn't right. Elisa had jumped to a swift conclusion upon looking at Lonan; most people did. They usually assumed two or three things, based purely on sight alone: that he was punk that had somehow been plucked from 1976 and brought to present day, ironically still holding on to the "No Future!" punk creed; that he probably carried freshly rolled cigarettes in one pocket and brass knuckles in the other; and, in the case of most young women aged sixteen to twenty six, that he was a every bad boy/rock star/European model fantasy they had ever had rolled into one, and that he had stepped out of their dreams and into real life when they hadn't been paying attention. None of those things were true (except for the last bit, but only if you meant it in a strictly poetic or metaphorical sense, and didn't mind that he was actually from Queens).

Elisa reconsidered. The guy all but glaring at her wasn't scrawny enough, and his face was way too—well, _pretty_ to be Sid. But under the spiked hair and silver piercings, he wore an expression so sour it could curdle milk, and she did not feel an overwhelming urge to find out why.

"Me Elisa Maza," she agreed, glancing back down at the report she was filing. "You someone I know?"

"I need to talk to you," he said urgently. "About Marjorie."

Elisa's head snapped up. "What about her?" She considered him more carefully, and failed to imagine a scenario in which this young punk and Marjorie could be linked in any way. "And, who are you?"

"I'm her friend," his voice rising suddenly in impatience, and there was a edgy tremble underneath it. The tremble cracked open, allowing a rush of fury and anguish to lash out. "And why the hell are you here, if you're the one she said was helping her? Why aren't you looking for the guy that did that to her?!" Around the room, people stopped what they were doing, looked up, and stared.

"Easy, easy—" Elisa rushed out of her chair and shushed him with a sharp motion of her hands and a patient, pleading glance. She was relieved to see that for the moment, Chung and Harris weren't around. "You look a bit too anarchy in the UK to waltz into a police station and pick a fight."

"I didn't—" he began, but stopped, and swallowed hard. He ran a shaking hand though his spiked hair, suddenly conscious of the stares from around the room. "So it's true?" he asked, looking pale. "Someone really tried to kill her last night?"

Elisa thought he looked lost for a moment, as if he had forgotten where he was. There was a brittle vulnerability about him now that struck Elisa as unaccountably familiar, until she remembered the way Marjorie looked in her hospital bed, begging her not to leave.

"Tried," she answered flatly. "Didn't. But if you really want to know more, you'll have to follow me." And so she turned towards the interrogation rooms located in the back of the building, where they would find some privacy. After a moment, she heard the heavy tread of his biker boots trailing after her, the chains wrapped around the laces clinking softly at each step.

She allowed herself one last sigh before slipping into a professional mask, hating the mess, hating her growing headache, hating all the paperwork but mostly just hating the Universe for being so unapologetically predictable.

* * *

By midnight the same day, Elisa's day had not gotten any easier.

After a morning of paperwork and being grilled over Marjorie's case by a surprisingly large amount of people (aside from Chung and Harris and her punkish visitor, Elisa had had to contend with a few eager reporters looking for more sensational scoops to write follow ups on the occult aspect of the case), the Captain had asked her for a double shift as a means of paying back the favor she'd granted Elisa forestalling the investigation.

And though she didn't want to, that was another scratch on the mental tally Elisa was keeping in her head. It looked like this: on one side it read, _times when covering for this fiasco has made my life an irritating, hassling nightmare. _The other side read _times when it has not._ The first side was winning by a large margin.

She trudged up to the janitorial supplies closet minutes after her last shift finished. She hadn't really anything new to report to the gargoyles, but it felt wrong to just leave without at least saying goodnight.

She found the clock tower emptier than she thought it would be. There were no signs of Goliath or the trio; Hudson snoozed in his armchair, oblivious to her entry. Bronx lifted a drowsy head and snorted softly in greeting, and returned to his nap beside Hudson's chair.

_At least someone's getting a good nap_, she thought with a mix of envy and affection. She was about to leave when she spotted a familiar shadow land before the face of the clock, and with a tired but unsurprised shrug, she tiptoed past Hudson and his nap and up the stairs to meet Goliath.

"Hello, Elisa." He seemed to be expecting her—he hadn't even turned around from looking out over the ledge of the tower to the city below.

Elisa joined him, and they stared out over the flurry of lights together.

"I have not been entirely open about my feelings on this matter," Goliath said finally. "I gave my solemn oath and I meant it entirely. But I am still uneasy."

Elisa smiled. Goliath was always serious, but there was an extra note of somberness in his voice, and she had to stop herself from retorting _join the club._ Instead, she rolled her stiff shoulders casually and asked, a bit more flippantly than she intended, "Oh yeah? About what—Demona, her evil plot, Marjorie's letter…?"

"All of it, I'm afraid," he said, merely raising bemused eyebrow at her tone. "I once told Lexington that in time, perhaps we could find more friends among humans. I only imagined that those times would be of our choosing."

"I know, everyone was thrown," Elisa said. "And yes, we're still going to have to find out who sent Marjorie here—but she's _here_. And I think we have to adjust." A giant yawn pushed its way out of her, and she blinked blearily. "Lord knows I've had to today."

She glanced around the empty landing and turned back to Goliath. "By the way, where's the trio?"

"I sent them to guard over Marjorie's dwelling tonight," he answered. "I find it unlikely that Demona should recover so quickly, but there is no sense in taking unnecessary risks."

He looked to the dark sky with a grim frown. "She's not an unnecessary risk," Elisa said quietly after a moment had passed.

Goliath's expression seemed to lighten considerably. "Then you are certain we can we trust her."

Elisa nodded affirmatively. "I think so."

An unusually playful look crossed his face. "A good detective trusts no one."

"Touché," Elisa drawled.

Goliath chuckled. "If you are certain, than I am assured."

Elisa was smiling too, and for a wonderful moment she forgot she was tired. Then she shifted uncomfortably on her feet. "I am a bit worried, though. All of this happened so fast, and I still don't know what to make of her."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember when I told everyone how she doesn't have a family? Well, it bothers me. It would bother me anyway, but Matt dug up something that puts me off."

Goliath flexed his powerful wings and set them about his shoulders. "Tell me."

"Well for starters, she ran away from home. She says she didn't, but leaving home and never going back when you're only 15 is running away, even if you do let your dad know you're leaving." Goliath looked speculative about this, and then nodded for her to continue.

"And that's another thing—her father just lets her go, and never once tries to contact her or bring her back home." Elisa felt her voice growing angry, and realized that she hadn't had the chance to talk over what she'd learned from Marjorie with anyone (except Matt, whom she didn't tell everything for obvious reasons), and that as such her own aversion towards this notion had been stewing all day. "That's neglect—" she found herself nearly biting out the words. She paused and calmed her voice. "It's abandonment, even. Maybe it's not really my business, but if the investigation turns up the fact that she's underage…It could be a problem for her. I think for the immediate future her problems are our problems."

"You are concerned about her father," Goliath frowned. "Is this something to do with what you have learned today?"

"Yes, exactly," she started, noting with faint embarrassment that she had strayed slightly from her original point. "The more I hear about her father the less I trust him. I just found this out from Matt today—he's extremely wealthy—not like Xanatos, but close—and some shady things that don't really add up. I can put it this way—Marjorie should have the means to be living in a sky-rise penthouse, not a crumbling warehouse in Brooklyn. It seems to me like she's hiding from something."

Goliath watched Elisa carefully as she paced over the stones, realizing that now the thorn of the issue was coming to light. "But-- aside from this Demona fiasco, she's happy, and balanced—and she's _sweet_. And I can't figure out how she's managed this long all alone."

"I think I understand," Goliath said, taking a moment to consider his words carefully. "Within a gargoyle clan, all children are treasured and guarded beyond anything else. To do otherwise…it is unthinkable. I thought at first that it was this that bothered you.

"But…is it the fact that she seems so unaffected that bothers you. That she appears to think relying on herself alone is only to be expected."

Elisa stilled and Goliath saw a look of quiet comprehension cross her face. She nodded slowly. "I…yeah."

Both Goliath and Elisa were silent for a while in the night, each privately lost in thought.

Finally, Goliath addressed Elisa with a new sense of purpose. "I cannot influence the workings of mankind's laws," he stated solemnly. "I'm afraid that if Marjorie must be shielded from those laws, it must fall to you. I can only protect her from our common enemy. I will spend the rest of my night patrolling. It would be a kindness if you would let Hudson know of my plans when you leave."

"Be careful," she said, beginning to feel tired again. She expected him to leap away immediately once he climbed atop the ledge, but he surprised her when he turned back with a meaningful glance.

"Elisa…" he addressed her. "Get some rest tonight, and try not to worry. I'm sure things will eventually return to calm."

Elisa watched his shadow glide away over the blur of lights and dark, and shook her head with a snort. "Yeah, sure. Because, calm? That's where we live."

* * *

But somehow, impossibly, amazingly, totally _and _completely beyond all of Elisa's expectations, things did calm down. If she wanted to be more accurate, Elisa could say that things went even beyond being calm; things had stopped, taken a deep breath, and settled down for a long and pleasant nap.

The force always kept her busy, but for some reason after her maddeningly stressful double-shift Elisa found she had more and more time for quick visits up to the clock tower. And more often than not, what awaited Elisa at the top of the fold down ladder was a slice of banana bread, a personalized cupcake, or a handful of fresh snickerdoodles made that very day—along with Marjorie, who had developed a taste for baking in her now very idle time.

But baked goods were not the only gifts Marjorie thought to share on her daily visits. Elisa had entered the clock tower more than a few times to see Brooklyn nodding his head and dutifully practicing his air guitar to whatever new Sex Pistols or Clash tape Marjorie had brought him (Marjorie seemed determined to cultivate Brooklyn's fledgling interest in punk music properly). At the moment Lexington had just exchanged _The Hobbit _for Marjorie's worn copy of _The Fellowship_, and Broadway, thanks to Marjorie, had developed an intense liking of a funny little comic called _Hellboy_ (Elisa vaguely understood it to be about a tough-talking, part-stone red guy with horns who fought Nazi gorillas and giant squids). Broadway couldn't read the dialogue balloons, but had learned to recognize the words "POW," "WHAM," and "ARRGH" very quickly, and delighted in shouting them aloud whenever Hellboy punched a zombie.

And Marjorie would be there amidst it all, and she would have a storyteller.

It varied each time Elisa visited. One night Broadway humorously described a close encounter he had with a flock of aggressive seagulls near New York Bay that left Marjorie clutching her sides with laughter; another night Goliath told her, in a soft pensive voice, of his lost clan brother Coldstone and the vow he and his clan had made afterward.

But no storyteller was more in demand than Hudson.

Battles and mages, Vikings and alliances with kings of old, the howling winds echoing up and down the jagged cliffs on Wyvern Hill, tales of long gone friends and brothers and sisters, the changing of things now past, of the old songs heard drifting though the night from the high halls old castles then new, of far away and forgotten legends brought that much closer now that he was here to tell them—no other stories could compare to the ones Hudson knew.

And he was a natural at it. His weathered voice could be soft like fine leather or rough as a gale on the sea, and he knew when to pause and dangle the telling in front of his listeners until they were near to burst with curiosity and excitement, and he knew when to let his words stew in their brains, becoming more potent in silence than the plain telling could ever be. He was so good it seemed like he surprised himself sometimes, and would occasionally blink with question at his audience, as if he was trying to work out if they were actually as interested as they looked or if they were just pulling his leg.

And perhaps it was a very quiet month indeed, for the trio seemed to venture out less and less, and even Goliath spent more nights within the tower than outside patrolling.

So Elisa stole away from the ordinary world to sit a while and watch. Marjorie all candid wonder, the trio, lost in the moment and forgetting that they were too old for clan stories anymore as they drew nearer, Goliath letting the weight slide off his shoulders as he was momentary lost in Hudson's narrative—every night seemed so perfect for storytelling that the old flickering light of the clock might as well come from a spitting fire somewhere in the dark, and that the weather outside might as well be dark and stormy, even if the skies were clear and calm. It was these moments that Elisa found from time to time that made her wish they would last more than the moments she had to spare. And occasionally, she wished they would simply never end.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Fairytale of New York**

**Chapter Eight: The Forgotten Door**

****A/N: ALL HAIL SILVEY, THE UNDEAD. TREMBLE BEFORE HER INHUMAN WILL TO CONTINUE WRITING FANFICITON DESPITE HAVING BEEN KILLED BY SCHOOLWORK THREE WEEKS AGO!

Seriously. Sometimes I hate college. It sucks so many important things away from life, like goofing off and writing things that won't earn you money or grades that will one day help you get a job which will help you get money.

IMPORTANT: I updated the seventh chapter with new content, so if you haven't read it yet you probably should, 'cause you know. It would make me happy.

* * *

"Um," Marjorie said. "I know we just met a week ago, but you really look like something's bothering you."

Elisa swallowed a mouthful of hash browns and shook her head. "We met nearly three and a half weeks ago, Marjorie."

"A figure of speech." Marjorie tilted her head to the side slightly, curiosity in her eyes and her ever-present good humor tugging at her lips. "And _you_ are deflecting."

Ever since their first breakfast together, Elisa had found herself becoming a regular at the Green Lady, where they now both sat sheltered from the grey Monday drizzle gradually soaking the street outside. At first, the twice-weekly lunches and coffee breaks had been a way of checking up on Marjorie, but they had now become more than that, for both of them. Elisa and Marjorie had each privately realized that the only thing they had to tether themselves to one another was the unlikely connection they had both managed to make with the gargoyles of Manhattan—and in a city of roughly eight million people, there was very little chance that they would have ever even met. Elisa was a cop and Marjorie lived within a Bohemian hub that despised the police on principle; Marjorie knew hundreds of folk tunes with dozens of variations on most of them, and Elisa had an extensive knowledge of the inner workings of organized crime. There wasn't much overlap.

But they did share a secret. And that made them confidants.

It was perhaps the greatest—and most unexpected—thing Elisa had gained from Marjorie's encounter with the gargoyles. Until she'd met Marjorie Elisa had never imagined how many things she'd been burning to say about the gargoyles to someone, anyone—she'd enjoyed having the secret to herself, of course. But who else could she laugh with over Hudson's taste in television, or Lexington's current obsession with building working models of battleships out of Lego blocks? She loved the clan more than she had the words to say, but hadn't realized how much she'd enjoy another human perspective until Marjorie.

And Elisa had to admit it now, there was more to it than having someone to share a secret with—she'd really grown fond of the kid. She was the only person she knew under the age of twenty-nine who had seen as many Humphrey Bogart films as she had, even the really terrible B-movie ones where he was always the thug. She knew all the Beatles' songs by heart (and unlike most people Elisa knew that had claimed this, it wasn't an hyperbole in Marjorie's case, which impressed Elisa to an absurd degree).

And as spectacular as Hudson's stories were, Elisa had to admit Marjorie had some good ones too—usually about her friends, whom Elisa could now imagine in vivid (and somewhat exaggerated) detail.

"Hard to believe that it's only been three weeks," Elisa sidestepped. "How long till that one comes off?" She pointed to Marjorie's arm. The cast (covered in get well messages and signatures from her friends, including two messy but enthusiastic 'B''s, one meticulously drawn 'L', an understated but dignified 'G,' as well as an illegible scribble that, completely by chance, resembled a grumpy potato) was gone, replaced with an arm brace. Marjorie's left thumb wiggled happily.

"Just two more weeks to go," Marjorie said cheerfully.

Elisa weighed something in her head for a moment. New York's Finest were not renown for their sense of optimism, and although Elisa tended to break generalizations down instead of assimilating them, there had been something unpleasant forming—a tightening ball of unease. As far as he could tell, she knew of no reason why it was there—but it made itself felt constantly and usually when were at their most serene—like the other shoe was about to drop.

Then Elisa said, "Well…actually, there is something. I didn't want to bring this up, but…Chung and Harris, the detectives working your case…"

Marjorie looked suddenly tense. Since their initial interview with her they'd asked her to come back to the station twice for more questioning. One time they had her stand before a line of men behind a mirrored window, each one of them wearing rubber monster masks to hide their faces.

"They haven't found any leads, and they're close to giving up your case," Elisa told her. "And that's good for us, considering there isn't a knife-wielding

Latin-speaking maniac out there who can hurt anyone, but…" Elisa looked slightly uncomfortable. "A friend of yours won't let them stop. They say he's come by every single day, demanding to know what they've found out. I know you can't exactly tell your friends the truth, but I thought by now—"

"Wait—a friend of mine? Who?"

Elisa looked at her sympathetically. "Everyday this guy has been coming by, apparently. I think I spoke to him once, but after that he just kept coming back. I just found out yesterday—Chung and Harris are really fed up. They might arrest him for obstructing the case if he doesn't let up."

Marjorie looked thunderstruck. "I—I had no idea," she said. "Why didn't you say this sooner?"

Elisa sighed. "I figured that you probably didn't have an idea, and I suppose I was looking for a better way of bringing it up, but since you seem to talk about all the friends you have but _this_ one…" Marjorie cringed and bit her lip.

"So…it's Lonan, isn't it?" Marjorie was idly twisting her paper napkin in her hands.

"I think that was his name, yeah. Tall, good-looking, punk?" Marjorie bit her lip and nodded.

"Are the two of you…involved?" Elisa asked, noting that there was a strange expression on Marjorie's face. Her cheerful mood had vanished to be replaced with something surprised, confused, perhaps a little hurt, and perhaps a little hopeful.

But Marjorie shook herself awake and then shook her head. "No, we're just friends," she said, but she said it like someone who has been asked the same question so many times they could no longer even imagine how there could possibly be anyone left in the world who could ask. "I guess we had a fight. Or we didn't. I don't know."

"Alright, so it's complicated," Elisa allowed. "If I see him again, I can ask him to stop, but—"

"No, no," Marjorie rushing to stop her. "I should do that. It's my…I'll do it."

"Okay then." Elisa finished her coffee with a bracing swig and set it down. "Changing the subject: I already know you've been enjoying you're free time now, but what are you planning to do when that arm is better?"

Although obviously relieved the conversation had moved on, her smile was still reserved. "Well, I don't know. I was thinking I should probably pay for the arm first, so I was going drop down to the bank around the corner and wake up my dormant savings account."

"I'll walk you," Elisa said, slipping on her jacket.

* * *

Had Marjorie gone home that night, she would have found someone waiting for her.

But Marjorie Campbell didn't come home that night, because something complicated had happened.

So the sun rose, and whoever had been waiting for Marjorie Campbell departed, feeling restless and frustrated.

Much later, when Marjorie became aware of who she narrowly had missed, she had a difficult time knowing if, in the long run, if she had been lucky or not. She was soon to become more and more suspicious of coincidence, but hardly less amiable to the notion of fate.

Though she did have to wonder.

* * *

The bank was one of _those _banks. The kind of bank that could, without two much difficulty, be mistaken for foyer of a well-to-do king or duke, or perhaps a particularly materialistic cathedral that had removed the pews in favor of more donation plates. At least half a dozen pillars (all gleaming rosy marble) supported a lavishly painted arch ceiling at least two stories up, with opulent and highly cushioned carpets running along the (also gleaming marble) floor. There were no booths for tellers; instead there were several highly polished and very imposing mahogany desks, floating like corpulent toads on gilded lilly pads.

Elisa stepped in from the drizzle, now steadily increasing into a thick soupy rain. She'd felt no need to accompany Marjorie inside the bank and had had every intention of waiting for her and then walking her to the nearest subway, but Marjorie had already been inside twenty minutes and there was, after all, no sense in waiting in the rain.

She spotted Marjorie slumped listlessly in a waiting chair before one of the large desks, all alone. "No one's helping you?" she asked as she approached. Marjorie looked back, and Elisa suddenly knew that something was very, very wrong.

Marjorie shook her head, looking staggered. "They told me that there's nothing," she said, her shoulders rising in a sort of helpless, involuntary shrug. "The savings my mom left me—they said it was transferred, or, you know, they lost it." She said this in a stunned voice that jumped to a high tone of flippancy, but it did not make her seem any less shaken.

Something small and tight in the base of Elisa's chest uncoiled, and was gone. Elisa opened her mouth to say something to Marjorie, something reassuring, but before she could a harried looking bank employee in an expensive suit scurried toward them. Following the banker was a very stout, very pale man, a shock of pale blonde hair seeming to float over a shining and perfectly visible scalp. His step was twice as heavy as the banker, and his suit was twice as expensive, and his eyes were twice as hard. He glanced at Elisa as indifferently as someone might notice a smear on the sidewalk, and turned towards Marjorie. "You are Marjorie Campbell?"

"Yeah," answered Marjorie. Then she said "Yes," more nervously.

"I am the manager of this branch, Thomas Roberts." He did not extend his hand for a handshake, or nod in greeting. "Am I to understand you claim to have withdrawn funds from this establishment before?"

"I _have_, yes," Marjorie answered. "A few times a couple of years ago. I haven't touched it since—"

"Do you have any proof?"

Elisa glanced to Marjorie to see if perhaps she knew what he was talking about, and quickly saw that Marjorie did not. In fact, Marjorie was beginning to look more and more as if someone had stealthily crept to a corner of a rug she happened to be standing on and gave it a hearty tug. "Excuse me?" she finally said.

"Identification," he clipped. It was perhaps the most disdainful, rancorous six syllables Elisa had ever heard uttered outside a squad car.

She steadied her hand on Marjorie's shoulder and stared down at the man with a cold stare of her own. "Pardon me, but do you think you could elaborate just what exactly is going on?"

Mr. Roberts gave her a second impassive look, and the smaller, less expensively dressed banker stepped forward and spoke for the first time in a soft, low voice.

"The young lady," he said, almost delicately, more to all of them than to Elisa in particular, "came in to withdraw funds from an account she claimed to have here. She had an account number in the same format as we use here, but there is no account. It was closed six months ago."

"What?" Marjorie exclaimed. "Why?"

"An Order issued—" began the banker, but the manager swiftly cut him off with a sharp gesture of his hand. "Client information is strictly confidential," he said, his brusque tone unpleasantly smoothed by something that might have been the smallest granule of smugness. "And if the young lady cannot present the credentials proving she is who she claims to be, then we are under no legal pressure to extend this dialogue any further. I must now ask you politely to leave, or I will have to involve the authorities."

"Don't trouble yourself," Elisa said coolly, slipping her badge out form her jacket and presenting it. "What was that you said about legal pressure?"

Mr. Roberts stood erect and glowered at Elisa, the pale yellow mustache resting on his lip bristling like a hedgehog. He cast his hardened eyes between the two of them, and then proceeded to slap them both, with flat, angry words: "I see. Perhaps I can explain this more clearly. _My_ bank," he bit out, "is the most trusted, the most exclusive in this city. We do not make mistakes, and our actions so far have been perfectly warranted. The fact that you have the nerve to flash your limited authority in defense of young lady—who does not even resemble the class of client we serve here—is laughable, and insulting. Incidents of _this_ sort"—here he pointed at Marjorie to properly illustrate the type of incident he meant—"do not happen here. I am well paid to make sure they are not. There is simply nothing further to say."

Marjorie was tugging at her arm, and Elisa could see the vague outlines of black-suited men discretely approaching them from both sides, but she didn't budge. "Excuse me, sir," she said, her voice cold and immovable. "But if you can't give me a reasonable answer right now, I can have a warrant sent over within the hour—that is, if you think your clients will trust you after reports of your bank taking clients' money away without explanation in tomorrow's paper."

Something in the manager's jaw twitched, but the rest of his face was perfectly blank. Then he abruptly turned and left, waving a disgusted hand in the direction of the banker. The banker cleared his throat, and nodded jerkily in Elisa's direction.

"Why was the account closed?" Elisa asked. "What happened to her money?"

"The money was transferred," replied the banker. "Our system tells me the funds were funneled into several offshore accounts."

"By who?" Marjorie asked, still sounding a bit dazed. "My mother left me this account, I'm supposed to be the only one who can access it…"

"The account was in the name of Marjorie Campbell, yes," agreed the banker, beginning to sound anxious. "But—the system tells me that a Mr. Richard Campbell presented a court Order to terminate the account and channel the funds in his name."

"On what basis?" Elisa demanded angrily. "What gave you the right to give her money away like that?"

The banker hesitated. "You must understand, but we pride ourselves very highly on our track record concerning fraud and errors in accounting," he suddenly stammered out. "We're one of the most highly rated banks in customer safety, and—"

"On. What. Basis?" Elisa repeated, clenching her teeth.

The banker flicked his eyes once in Marjorie's direction and would not look at her again. "It was a Petition of Death, ma'am," he said. "According to our systems, Marjorie Campbell is legally dead."

* * *

Marjorie had never been told she was dead by anyone before.

She wondered if this was how Mark Twain felt when he read his obituary in the paper. He'd made a joke of it, but Marjorie didn't think she had it in her to do that, with the way she felt. It had happened to him on two different occasions, though, so maybe that had made it easier to laugh the second time around.

Marjorie swayed slightly in time with the shaking of the subway car as it roared though the night. Although time had seemed to crawl after the episode at the bank, somehow it was nearly fourteen hours later and Marjorie felt used-up, and tired beyond belief.

Sleeping hadn't helped much. There had just been so many things that had to happen, so many ways in which Marjorie had been of so little use that her dreams had been anxiety-ridden and restless, and even though she'd been waking up in Elisa's apartment—for the second time—where it was safe and sensible, Marjorie still felt like it was all apart of one of those ridiculous dreams. Coming home to find out your mother had sold you to the circus, your Korean grandmother was suing you for custody of your sea sponge—you wake up feeling betrayed and mystified, only to realize you have not woken up in a clown make-up and you don't even have a sea sponge or a grandmother, much less a Korean one.

It was now close to six o'clock, and swarms of people clambered on and off at every stop. Listless in her seat, Marjorie barley noticed them. Her stop was only five stations away.

It had begun with a phone call to Elisa's partner, Matt. Marjorie was certain that both ends of the conversation were a spectacle to overhear, but she could only vouch for Elisa's side: it ranged from controlled anger to something just short of a frothing rant.

"—records say deceased for half a year—What?—Yes, I know but—you told me…Yes! That's what I think. How could you have missed something as big as that without—…_What_? What do you _mean_, wouldn't hold up in court? _Why_ wouldn't that hold up? What? Well, obviously he found a way—But—!"

And so it went. Elisa hung up the payphone with a clang, and Marjorie, thinking of doing nothing but what she was told, followed Elisa to her car and together they went to her apartment. The whole way there was a tense silence, and Marjorie could feel the waves of rage diffusing from Elisa like heat from a light bulb. And she knew it wasn't directed at her, knew even that it was in her behalf, but she could not help but feel terribly, awfully guilty.

So she sank into the cushion-like seat of Elisa's Fairlane, and then later into the actual cushions of Elisa's sofa, and waited for the guilt and feeling of uselessness to go away and be replaced with something more steady, more adult.

The feeling didn't go away. It got worse.

The subway car stopped again. People filed in and out of the car like a group of overlarge children playing a much simpler game of musical chairs as they pushed and pulled out of the door, squeezed into seats and gaps between other people, and then the doors closed, and Marjorie barely noticed.

The feeling grew particularly bad as Elisa asked her more and more questions that Marjorie could not answer—where was her father now? Was she sure he still lived in her old hometown? Had she ever noticed any ads or newspaper notices asking for her? Had her father ever tried to contact her? What were the specific terms on the account her mother had left her? Was there anything she could think of to help?

No, Marjorie had realized. There wasn't.

So after speaking on the phone to three different lawyers Elisa knew and then to Matt several times more, Elisa slung her coat around her shoulders and unlatched the door. "I'm going to see Matt about this," she said.

"Oh," Marjorie said. She stood up from the couch. "Should I go home…?"

"I'd like it if you could stay here," Elisa told her. Ever since Mr. Roberts had first spoken, Elisa had been consumed by a boiling energy that kept her pacing on the phone, slamming drawers shut as she brutally searched for paper and pens, and all but unresponsive to Marjorie's unresponsiveness. But as she prepared to leave, she allowed herself to slow and her expression softened.

"Don't worry," Elisa said. She crossed the room, and squeezed Marjorie's shoulders reassuringly. "We'll figure this out. I'll send company over, so you won't get lonely."

It was in this instant where the absurdity of the situation became inescapable for Marjorie. "My life doesn't make sense anymore," she said.

"Pardon?" asked the tiny woman in the tweed skirt to her left, peering at Marjorie uncertainly.

"Oh," Marjorie said, remembering where she was. "Nothing. Sorry. Just talking to myself. Sorry."

The train slid to a halt, and she had finally reached her stop. She stepped out into the nearly empty platform, and made her familiar way up the stairs and onto the slanted, cobble stoned streets of what used to be New York's earliest shipping district. The rain from yesterday had cleared the air, and the sky was crisp and red as the sun sank beneath the river.

"I don't get it," Broadway said. He and Brooklyn hovered nearby the sofa, where Marjorie sat stroking Cagney and Lexington sat deep in thought. "She's not dead. If there was a mistake, all she has to do is show up so they can see that she's breathing and everything, and they can fix it."

"It doesn't work like that," Lexington said, frowning. He sighed. "Human laws are more complicated than that," he groaned. "Elisa can prove that Marjorie is alive—but that doesn't mean she'll get her money back."

"But it's hers!" Broadway exclaimed.

"Elisa will take care of it," Brooklyn said firmly.

Her friends kept up the encouraging talk until she finally fell asleep, but for the most part Marjorie would simply nod while only half-listening. She woke up with a blanket tucked around her and a purring cat squashing her feet just before sunrise, in an empty living room.

She spent her last twenty-dollar bill at the corner side grocery a block from her building, wondering how long it would be before she had another. Marjorie didn't like focusing too much on money, but it was something practical and concrete compared to the swirling muddle the rest of her mind was preoccupied with, so she focused.

It didn't work. Her mind relapsed into something like the standby pictures on television screens very very early in the morning: empty but tense with bursts of random noise, and a glaring shrill that scattered any attempt at cohesive thought.

Marjorie's shock had surprisingly little to do with the fact that her father had apparently killed her (in a legal, not literal sense) without bothering to actually double check the facts first. Perhaps she could not focus on it, or perhaps it was too big for her scope of consideration for the moment—whatever the case, her turmoil lay somewhere else.

It felt deeper. Like the events of the past day had unearthed something she'd forgotten about long ago. It did not feel like a memory or lost dream; it was unpleasant and unknowable. It slipped away from her like the void after dreaming, until she almost could convince herself that there was really nothing, that it was a product of her confusion and anxiety.

But it was something real, in a way—it was a feeling, a sense. It was familiar. She remembered feeling it under the stricken glances of her friends after her attack, she remembered feeling it as Elisa shouldered burden after burden for the sake of protecting her and her secrets, and now as she raced to defend Marjorie's living name.

Marjorie had now, despite her distractions, reached the heavy door of her apartment building. She only needed more time to think about it, to put her finger on what it was that was really bothering her. It felt like she should know about it already. It felt as though she had been living in one part of a house all of her life, so long that she had forgotten there was a whole other wing beyond her door. If she just went through it now, she would perhaps remember what it was and what was in it.

But she didn't want to open the door. She couldn't be sure if something wasn't living in the other part of the house. She couldn't be sure that whatever slept there in the dark wasn't waiting for her to come out.

* * *

Three was someone was waiting for Marjorie by the door. She just hadn't noticed at first.

A throat cleared in the darkness; Marjorie recoiled and heaved her grocery bag at the sound without thinking.

"…Ow," said a familiar voice, as a heavy can of black beans smashed into his foot.

Marjorie let out a shuddering gasp as she clutched her thudding heart. "_Lonan_?!" she partly shrieked.

He'd been standing just in the lip of the alley right next to door, a halo of used cigarettes crushed around his feet. He'd been in plain sight the whole time, she realized.

"Sorry," he said, bending awkwardly to pick up her fallen sack of groceries. "You…looked like you were thinking about something. At first I thought you were just ignoring me." He glanced up at her quickly and then back down, fiddling with the handles of the plastic bag as he stood up. Marjorie just stared at him.

"I wouldn't have blamed you," he said. "If you were. Ignoring me."

Marjorie wouldn't have liked to admit it, but Lonan and the baffling way he'd treated her since the day she'd met him for breakfast nearly a month ago had never been completely out of the focus of her mind. But despite this, her mind had to scramble to connect that day and everything she'd learned about him since to the suddenness of him now, standing in front of her: _Previously, on In Your Life—after ditching you and ignoring you for ambiguous reasons never disclosed after you confided in him after your attack, Lonan has apparently been stalking the detectives charged with finding your fictional stalker, and it has been recently revealed to you by a close friend that he has an extreme tendency to defend his closest friends beyond a rational norm due to childhood trauma, which may have retroactively just explained the aforementioned baffling behavior._

"So…I guess that's a yes on the ignoring," Lonan said, after Marjorie said nothing. "You got your cast off," he tried a moment later, desperately.

"Yes, they do that if the break isn't to bad after the third week," she said coolly. "Though I suppose you wouldn't know that."

To Marjorie's surprise (and slight irk), Lonan didn't cringe at her unforgiving tone; instead a mild amount of relief flowed into his tense expression, though it still remained subdued. "I deserve that," he told her.

He crushed the butt of his lit cigarette under his boot as he gingerly stepped towards her, her bag of groceries extended. "It was stupid—_I_ was stupid, and I shouldn't have just—done that. I'm sorry."

Lonan possessed a naturally expressive voice. Marjorie knew this from watching him perform so often. He could stir sadness and longing, excitement and thrills, and move the people that listened to him in any way he wanted with just the right tone. Marjorie didn't hate the fact that he could sound sorry so easily—more sorry, she thought, than she'd ever heard anyone being sorry before had ever been—she hated the fact that she knew him well enough to know when he was sincere, and that he was.

And knowing that he meant it was a relief and a curse,because it made her want to tell him everything, and she knew she could not, and would not. So she swallowed and turned away from him, and pulled her keys from her pocket, and opened the door to her building.

"Marjorie," Lonan pleaded.

She held out her good arm to take back her groceries.

"Can't I just—"

"It's not like you can get off that easy," Marjorie snapped, her voice trembling slightly.

Lonan froze, and this time he cringed.

"I thought—I really thought that it was my f—" Her good hand darted away from Lonan to catch something at her eye, and she bit the inside of her mouth in anger. She'd managed _not_ to dissolve into tears before now, hadn't she?

And wasn't finding out your own father had given up on your existence more painful than what was happening to her right now? She couldn't decide what she hated more, his sense of timing or the fact that it had been completely accidental on his part. "If you had any idea of what I've been though—then and right now—"

"Right now?" he asked. In an instant the hesitation and restraint was gone. With a step he was beside her, clasping his hands on her shoulders. "What's wrong? What's happened?"

Balking at his sudden closeness, Marjorie stepped back. Lonan let go of her arms immediately, still looking alarmed. "Marjorie—you've got to tell me if—"

"Why should I tell you anything?" Marjorie burst out, surprising even herself. "So you can ignore me for another three weeks and camp outside the police station?"

"Who—?" Lonan's shoulders drooped. "Oh. Rodger told you."

"No, he didn't," Marjorie hissed though clenched teeth. "My friend told me. You know, the _cop?_ She says they were going to arrest you for hassling them—"

"Marjorie—"

"—and what's this I hear about Rodger getting _knifed in a bar_, and the both of you lying about it to me—"

"That—! Who told—it's not like—"

"So have you been haunting Belvedere too, to see if someone in a mask shows up? Just what the hell were you thinking anyway—"

"I was thinking of you!" Lonan exclaimed, his voice cutting harshly over hers.

Marjorie blinked, and for a frightening, dizzy moment she was uncertain if the person raging in front of her had actually been Lonan from the start, and not someone else. There was something in him she'd never seen before, something raw and unstable, trembling though his hands and eyes. He seemed infuriated and almost terrified at the same time, drawing back from her, looking sick. What made it worse was that it _was Lonan—_she recognized what she knew of him buried under the wildness in his eyes as they slid around her gaze, never fully meeting it. The Irish in his voice grew stronger. The way he crossed one arm under his torso to clench his side, biting the corner of his mouth—

"You could have died! Don't you _get_ that?" he shouted raspily, his callused fingers clutched in bone-white fists. "That's supposed to mean something. Whoever hurt you is out there and they're supposed to do something about it and they haven't done a damn thing!"

A pattern clicked before her eyes: Timber smuggling away newspaper under her shirt, Sally creating small towers of breakfast foods, Carol and her nicknames, the worried glances, midnight visits, Elisa and her crusade…Lonan had just done it differently.

"Nobody can do anything," Marjorie told him, quietly, as his breathing began to calm. "So just stop it."

Marjorie couldn't remember what she'd been mad about. The odd, unnamable door in her head creaked further open, and what was behind it grew more focused—and now, the things that had so confused and hurt her whenever Lonan came to mind seemed unimportant.

She picked up her groceries, and turned the key in the lock to the door of her building, and opened it. But she couldn't help but spare him once more glance.

He was only standing a few feet away, but Marjorie felt so disconnected she might as well have been looking at him through a telescope. His eyes were red and his shoulders hunched, and she had never seen someone look so miserable in all her life.

"I'm okay," she said, knowing it sounded awkward. He looked up. "I'm better, now. Would have been a bit sooner, but…"

"That's good," he said. "Sorry," he added a few seconds later, almost involuntarily.

The silence settled around them, uncomfortable, but no longer charged with intensity. "Do you just want to forget about it?" she asked, watching her thumb twirl around the plastic handle of her grocery bag.

"I…what?" Lonan asked.

"The last three weeks. Forget about them. Just go backwards…a do-over. No more apologies, no more ugly guilt?"

Lonan took a long time to answer, and when he did it seemed as he did so very cautiously, as if he were afraid she hadn't really meant it and would take her words back at any second. "Yeah. Sounds…good."

The corners of her mouth turned up only slightly, and she realized it was the first smile she'd had in what felt like ages. It was stiff and awkward, but it felt real and sort of wonderful. "Good. Um…starting tomorrow then. Lunch. I'm in the market for an idiot to buy me a nice, expensive, apologetic lunch, and then I should be free to start."

Lonan was smiling too, though his smile was much bigger. "You're in luck. I know just the guy." And after a few fumbling moments they said their goodbyes, still a little awkwardly, but without the coldness present earlier, and that was that.

As she sleepily trudged up the six flights of stairs to her apartment (she was suddenly tired beyond belief) Marjorie was sure that they both had the odd sensation of having avoided certain and messy disaster, and as was her habit, hurried to think of a suitable metaphor to entertain herself. When the best she could come up with was an extremely convoluted (and certainly very odd) image of a deer frozen in the headlights of a oncoming car, only for the car to be plucked upwards by a spaceship leaving the deer dazed and quite puzzled as to how he had escaped death, she realized she really needed to get a full night's sleep.

Marjorie was now at the door to her apartment. With a weariness that settled all the way in her bones, she fumbled for the key with tired fingers, thinking only of her soft mattress and the numb forgetfulness of a deep sleep.

The door opened before she even had the key in the lock, and she found darkness waiting for her.

* * *

Mostly because the dim lamp she kept always kept lit in her cramped hallway had been ripped violently from the wall and lay shattered at her feet. Cold air blew in hearty gusts, stirring up scraps of paper from further in the apartment down the hall with baleful howls. She could see from the doorway that there was a large ugly dent in the side of her ancient refrigerator and her dresser was on its side, contents spilling out to the floor. Both doors to the separate bedrooms looked slightly askew, nearly knocked off their hinges, and Marjorie knew that she would find both rooms in a similar state if she ventured in any further.

Right under where the lamp had been ripped out, four jagged marks were gouged in through the paper and deep into the plaster of the wall.

Marjorie breathed in very slowly, and then without turning away from the door, without blinking, took one step to the side as softly as she could, and sank against the wall.

The red sunlight had still glared across the wall of her apartment. She'd seen it stark against the dark shadows of the tattered dresser. A day has passed since this had happened. Her apartment had to be empty now, because Demona would have gone. She would have. It was empty.

Marjorie didn't look back inside. Leaving her sack by the door she walked towards the opposite end of the hall to where the floor telephone hung, nestled beside the fire extinguisher. Marjorie didn't own a phone and barely needed to ever use one. Each floor of the building had it's own phone in the hall, since the days long ago when the foreman might have needed to call anyone at any time. She clutched the handle tightly to her face as her fingers slowly punched the ancient keys as carefully as she could.

Miles away somewhere else a phone rang, and Marjorie listened to it through the earpiece. One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

She would not turn around. No matter what. If she did not turn around there would be nothing there behind her. She must not look behind her.

Four rings. Five. Six. _Seven—_

"Hello?" Elisa's voice. Marjorie breathed, for so long and so deeply that Elisa asked again, "Hello? Anyone there?"

"It's me, it's me, Elisa," Marjorie gasped. "It's Marjorie. She found me last night—Demona. She was in my apartment. She broke my lamp. I think she broke my refrigerator."

"What? Is she still there? _Where are you_?"

"I—here, here, at my apartment. She's not there—I didn't go in, I don't know," Marjorie whimpered. "I didn't go in. She found me. I don't know what to do."

"Just stay calm, okay, Marjorie? No matter what happens, you have to stay calm. Now, is there a friend nearby you can stay with, someone to wait with until I can come get you?"

"I—yes! Yes, there's Carol. She's on the first floor. She might still be here—"

"Good. Go there now. Don't stop for anything, just go. I'm coming over. And I'm sending help."

"Good—okay—"

From behind her came a abrupt _CRASH_. Marjorie dropped the phone and turned, wide-eyed, to the empty hallway. The heavy iron door to the stairwell beside her open apartment door had suddenly slammed shut.

Elisa's voice was still coming from the mouthpiece of the phone, tiny and panicked. But over the sound of her heart thumping and the ring in her ears from the deafening slam of the door, Marjorie heard something else: laughter. Muffled words in bright, female voices, and light footsteps on stairs, going upwards. Through the smudged glass of the stairwell door, Marjorie saw a flash of shining hair—blond and sleek black, maybe—a cluster of shadows that moved by the window and were gone, making their way up to the roof…

_The roof_, Marjorie thought, _where no one goes in the middle of the day. The roof, which is the perfect place to hide and wait for someone to come back, and track them down in the dark…_

"No! Wait!" she yelled, leaving the distant whining voice of the telephone behind without a second thought. Panic made her feet stumble as she ran as hard as she could, to the door, pushing against it with all her strength, a madcap dash upwards to the roof entrance—

"Stop, the roof isn't safe! Stop!" she screamed up the steps, but it had already closed, the handle still rattling.

The entrance to the roof of Marjorie's building was not another door, but an odd sort of rectangular window that just happened to have a swinging cover that acted as a door. It was roughly two and a half feet wide by three feet high, suspended about three feet above the level of the floor with a small ladder built under it. It opened from the side of a five-foot tall box-like structure that was the only vertical break on the otherwise perfectly flat roof, and could have easily had a regular door instead of the odd porthole square. What purpose it had served as such and what the architect had been thinking when designing the building was a mystery, and like all odd or archaic things Marjorie had a distinct fondness for the porthole door, but now she cursed it as its rusty hinges stuck, as she fought for purchase on the old ladder, hyperaware of how with each second the sun was sinking lower and lower.

The door creaked open and she thrust her head out, shouted "You have to get off the roof—ahh?"

The roof was completely deserted. No sounds, no group of giggling girls, no gargoyles.

The sun had already set. The sky was dimming from vivid orange to a slow, ochre blue, and Marjorie was alone.

She climbed the rest of the way on the roof, breathing heavily as she frantically glanced all around. She didn't imagine it, did she? She heard someone coming up here. The iron door had slammed—_slammed_—and it didn't do that by itself. Wearily, she edged her way around the block of rectangular concrete that concealed the stairs leading below. Behind it there was empty flat roof, with just space enough to stretch your arms out wide before you reached the high edge of the buffer. Marjorie saw the bridge, she saw the trash laden lots of scrap below, she saw the community garden by the riverside, she saw the old crumbing buildings of DUMBO and she saw the darkening sky—but she saw no one else but herself, and she did not see any gargoyles.

An approaching train rumbled down the bridge, filling the air with palpable rattlings of metal and thundering. Marjorie hugged her arms tightly and allowed herself one deep sigh, feeling as inch by inch the muscles in her back tightened as the air filled her lungs, and shuddering as the air escaped again when she could no longer hold it. The train was nearly past. She turned and—

_Crunch. _Marjorie felt it under her foot more than she heard it over the lumbering tread of the train overhead. She lifted her shoe. Thin shards of stone lay all around her feet. She looked up.

Demona looked back from her perch on top of the doorway, her eyes unblinkingly set on Marjorie. Somehow the knowledge that she had wandered right into her grasp, had stood moments underneath her shadow without even realizing it, was more terrifying still than seeing her emerge from the darkness of Belvedere castle.

The train had passed. In the wake of its noise Marjorie once again felt the pounding of her own heart in her ears, contradicting her firm belief that it had stopped.

Moments of agonizing stillness passed and Demona did not move. Her eyes betrayed nothing but a keen interest, looking exactly like an indoor cat spying a bird outside the window. Marjorie tried hard not to look like she was trying to figure out if she could reach the door and clamber through it before Demona got to her.

"Human," she finally said. The word was casual, almost as if she was greeting Marjorie instead of cursing her as she had before, but Marjorie's nerves were so shot it struck her like a hammer. She flinched and nearly fell, at the last instant using the momentum of her movement to launch herself wildly towards the door.

Marjorie didn't see Demona move. There was a solid hit along her right shoulder and the world spun, knocking her down to the gravelly rooftop. As she fought to work out which direction was up, Demona crouched down over her. Her dusky blue skin was lost in the darkening blue of the sky; all Marjorie could make out were her luminous eyes, not red yet but gleaming like a cat's in the dark. "You really have a lovely home here, Marjorie. I quite enjoy the view. But you should be more careful when on the roof. It can be…dangerous."

Marjorie focused on her eyes as they were the only things she could make out clearly. She swallowed, and said nothing.

"I had a bit of trouble finding you, you know," Demona continued, quite at ease. "It was very nice of you to give me your name, but then you weren't even listed in the phone book…and then you took the extra precaution of faking your death to get your financial records buried under a mass of red tape…" Marjorie mentally staggered as the memories of the past day, somewhat thrown out of her head due to her present circumstances, collided with her not inconsiderable panic. Demona sneered. "Clever, I'll admit, but sloppy. An idiot could find the discrepancies and figure out it was falsified."

Marjorie's first, honest thought at this was, _Ha! Take that, Mister There-Are-No-Mistakes-in-MY-Bank_, followed by, _GET A GRIP, MARJORIE! SHE'S GOING TO KILL YOU._

"Of course, I also had to wait for a while to recover from our _last_ encounter," Demona growled, her eyes flashing red for a second.

Thinking of nothing but reaching a more defensible position, Marjorie shifted her arms under her chest to slowly pull herself up. Demona's gaze flashed down at her and Marjorie froze, but it was too late.

"Oh, let me help you up," she said blithely, grasping Marjorie's right arm. Again, faster than she could register Marjorie was yanked upwards and flung roughly against the hard concrete wall of the doorway, just managing to keep on her feet. Breathing hard, she kept her wide eyes on Demona, who continued sneering as she perched on the roof boundary overlooking the shadowy Manhattan Bridge.

"What?" Demona asked, her voice mocking. "No tears? No pleas for mercy? Well, aren't I so impressed—"

"What do you want?" Marjorie asked so forcefully she surprised even herself.

Demona paused, her smug expression slipping for a moment. "What do I want? Not much, little girl. Just a chance for freedom. For justice. Is that too much to ask?" She paused, as if daring for Marjorie to disagree. Marjorie kept silent, and Demona turned towards the skyline of Manhattan across the East river, apparently satisfied.

"All I have _ever_ wanted," she continued, standing up and pacing slowly across the roof towards the sea of lights, "is lost to me. Because of your race. And most recently, because of _you_, three weeks ago, in Central Park—" Demona shook her head in Marjorie's direction, and Marjorie immediately stopped looking at the porthole door, now merely a foot past the corner of the wall where she now huddled. "—I find myself once again at an impasse."

The pounding of Marjorie's heart was beginning to calm. She still felt like a cornered mouse in the presence of a very angry cat, but she got the feeling that Demona was…enjoying her rant. It sort of reminded her of Rodger on his more dramatic days. It gave her an idea.

"What were you trying to do?" she asked, still somewhat dizzied by her own daring.

Demona shot her mixed look of contempt, surprise, and annoyance. "That is of little importance now," she hissed. She scrutinized Marjorie with narrowed eyes, and Marjorie wondered if she'd made a mistake. "Especially in light of what I have discovered."

Demona began to walk towards her from the edge of the opposite boundary. "Did you think this was a social visit, girl? Or have you been wondering why I haven't sliced you open from eyeballs to entrails yet?"

To her credit, Marjorie did not bolt for the door at the sudden turn in conversation from abstract goals to vital organs. However Demona must have noticed as Marjorie's eyes flicked helplessly towards the door, as she moved once more with terrible speed and was suddenly poised between Marjorie and her only chance of escape.

"Your blood," she said. Her expression seemed halfway between elation and revulsion. "I don't know how or why, human, but your blood didn't _ruin _my spell. It _enhanced _it. With enough magical force left over to extend the reach of the spell far beyond what I even thought possible.

"If just one drop of your blood managed to do that…imagine what I could do with all of it?"

Marjorie pushed away from the wall, kicking up a frenzy of small gravel as she spun to keep Demona in her sights. She backed up until she felt the bump of the rooftop boundary behind her.

Demona made no attempt to stop her. She just smiled. "Remember I told you to be careful..."

It was the smile that did it. Marjorie clenched her jaw, and remembered her idea. "I know why you hate humans so much," she breathed. She swallowed and continued in a stronger voice: "I know why you think you have to do this."

Once again, Demona dropped her superior look, though her leer remained in place. She scrutinized Marjorie with hard eyes. "Really? Do tell."

Marjorie took a breath. "You think because I'm human, that I'll…try to hurt you because I'm scared of you, but I'm not _like_ that. Not all humans are like the ones that you might…"

Demona had stopped listening. She was inspecting her talons with an expression of derision on her face, yet Marjorie could plainly see how very subtly the corners of her lips were pointed upwards, and realized with a jolt that this pretense of boredom was…Demona _mocking _her. Marjorie felt she'd just swallowed an ice cube that chilled her all the way down to the pit of her stomach.

After a few seconds limped by, Demona dropped her arms with a smirk and began to stride towards Marjorie.

"They betrayed you," Marjorie started over quickly, and Demona paused. "I know that people betrayed you, and you've been hurt, and insulted, and…and you've really lost…a lot."

Demona was now staring at her. "I'm sorry about it," Marjorie said, realizing with no small surprise that she really, really did mean it. The story Goliath had given her above all a heightened awareness of the loss the gargoyles had all shared—Demona included. And something about seeing her against the dark blue of the sky—so that it looked as if she were fading inside of it—made it almost impossible for Marjorie to forget how alone Demona was. While she, Marjorie, though friendless as she was on the rooftop, was a part in the new life the other gargoyles had made for themselves, and was not alone…The realization seemed to give her strength and her panic greatly subsided, almost exactly as it had in Belvedere Castle. "I'm sorry," she said again.

But Demona was tilting her head to the side, her face looking sour. Her eyes were glaring when they turned towards Marjorie once more. "Pretty words, human. But you are truly deluded if you think for _one moment_ you can comprehend the beginnings of my suffering—"

"I know I can't," she amended quickly. "But there are others like you. And Goliath—"

The breeze puffing atop the roof halted suddenly, and the dust floating in the air _froze_. Marjorie's words died in her throat. When Demona spoke a moment later, her voice was harsh and icy with fury, yet there was also something like a gasp to her words, as if in addition to the outrage there was a healthy amount of shock she was attempting to disguise. "How. Do you know. That name."

"The same way I know about—about the Captain, and castle Wyvern, and the—the Magus, the Vikings…." Marjorie answered quickly, moving away from the buffer surrounding the roof. Though it meant moving closer to Demona it no longer seemed safe to be so near edge.

Demona seemed to be frozen in place, though her gaze, now livid red, followed Marjorie's every step. "I—I know that you haven't changed from back then—why you still feel you have to hurt people—"

Demona took a sudden step forward, and Marjorie did not flinch backwards, though that was her first impulse. Demona came ever more forward, her steps purposefully slow and menacing, and still Marjorie willed herself to remain perfectly still.

"I will pull," Demona hissed through gritted teeth. "I will _wrench_ out exactly what you know about me out of your broken body. I will find out _how_ you know and—"

Marjorie threw herself to the ground on her left side as a darkened blur tore from the sky, howling, directly behind Demona. If she had looked at it too much, or moved out of it's path before it could reach them both, Demona would have realized that there was something approaching her from behind. On the ground as she frantically scrambled to crawl away from where the two gargoyles lashed and flailed just inches away, Marjorie knew a soaring elation at her own daring.

Already other dark shapes had landed and were surrounding them on the rooftop; a pair of thick, taloned hands scooped her up by her elbows and set her upright on her feet.

"Demona!" Goliath roared. "Stop!"

Marjorie felt more than saw a great black shape in the dim twilight leap behind her; there was a large thud of muscle against muscle and a giant cry of pure rage. She looked over her shoulder to glimpse Goliath and Demona struggling against one another while the figures of Lexington and Hudson loomed beyond them, and Brooklyn slumped against the barrier of the roof before a vast wing blocked her view, and Broadway was half pushing, half carrying her towards the door.

"Are you alright?" he asked, but before Marjorie could answer Lexington was there at the door, pulling it open and urging her inside. Broadway actually picked her up to send her through the door, but Marjorie held her hands against the wall of the outcropping to stop him. "I'm fine, I'm alright!" she yelled, squirming to face the battle going on behind them.

"Elisa's on her way," Lexington said, gently prying her hands from the doorway. Marjorie didn't want to stop fighting them, but then Demona let out a particularly ballistic roar of fury, apparently realizing that Marjorie was getting away. Marjorie turned and her eyes instantly met with Demona's as she glared from the opposite end of the roof, with now fewer than three gargoyles standing between them.

"Find Elisa!" Lexington urged, and Marjorie was hefted through the small doorway, stumbling as her feet met the ground. The door slammed shut, the sounds of battle shut out completely.

* * *

Lonan was pretty sure that today was going to be a good day.

The weather had cleared up to be a perfect May morning, he'd found a five dollar bill wedged under his subway seat, and this stormy bout of misery was finally on its way out for good. He drummed his fingers against the café table, a few blocks away from Marjorie's apartment.

This was the only café he actually enjoyed going to—a large majority of the ones on Manhattan usually employed the sort of people who gave the overwhelming impression that Lonan was not the sort of person who should order triple-whipped mochas with extra whip cream. Lonan enjoyed scoffing at the norms of society and was used to funny looks, but he still did not like being judged for his coffee.

He'd arrived uncharacteristically early, nearly an hour, but he _was_ especially nervous. He stopped tapping his fingers and twisted them together, staring off at nowhere. What if she showed up and things were still weird? What if they couldn't find anything to talk about, or she had changed her mind? What if she didn't show up at all?

He was staring so fixedly past the café fence that he didn't notice as Marjorie slowly walked up to his table, fifteen minutes before they'd agreed to meet for lunch. "Hello."

He started. "M! Hi." He flashed a winning grin and she smiled back wanly. He let the smile drop from his face as he saw that despite how tired-looking and jittery he'd seen her the night before in the pinched orange light of the streetlamps, she somehow looked worse in the healthy light of the day. She looked down quickly and sat down in the seat opposite him.

"I've just woken up and come straight here," she said, an air of cheeriness in her voice that Lonan knew immediately to be fake. "I'm so sleepy maybe I _will_ have some coffee. Is that frou-frou stuff you're drinking any good?"

"Marjorie, are you alright?" He'd just noticed that she was wearing the clothes she was wearing yesterday, and there was a large rip on the side of her jacket just on her upper arm. Had that been there before?

Marjorie opened her mouth, seemed to think better of it, and then closed it again. She shot him a pained glance, and shook her head.

Lonan was painfully reminded of the morning he walked into a diner and had to watch her explain how she'd almost been killed. His insides chilled like ice. "What is it?" he asked.

"I'm going home," she said.

At first Lonan did not know what she was talking about. Why come down all this way and sit down with him if she had changed her mind about forgiving him? But then it occurred to him that he had never heard her talk about her apartment with a tone like _that_.

"What do you mean, 'going home'?" he asked, stunned. "Not—leaving New York?"

She nodded. "Just for a little while," she said, seeing his distraught look. "A lot of…bad things have happened in a really short time, and I need to go and check into some things…but more than that, I think I just have to go."

Under his confusion, his mind immediately returned to what she had said the night before. _If you had any idea of what I've been though—then and right now—_

He opened his mouth to ask about it, but she was already speaking. "It's more than just things happening to me, though. I can't keep pretending like home doesn't exist."

In truth, Lonan felt like nothing else but protesting, demanding like before to know what was going on, but he took in the worn, determined look on her face and could not do it. "When are you going, then?" he asked.

"In about an hour," she answered. "We're going by van. We'll be there by the time it's dark."

"But—" Lonan shook his head and took a drink of his coffee. "How long will you be gone?" he asked when the heat passed down his throat. Suddenly he hated how sweet it was.

Here Marjorie hesitated. She looked to him as if she were trying to find a comfortable thing to say, but could not. Instead she simply shrugged. "I don't know. Not long, I think."

"You promise?" Lonan asked quietly. Marjorie stopped avoiding his eyes and looked up, surprised. She smiled, her eyes looking strangely watery. "Yeah," she said.

And then she was on her feet, brushing her skirt and looking away again. "I think I should go now," she said to her sleeve as she checked her watch. I still have to pack, and everything…"

"Alright," Lonan said as reflex. "Well…"

"Yeah," Marjorie said again. "Sorry about lunch. When I get back. We'll do it then."

"I—yeah, next time," he agreed, standing up, but with a wave she was walking away. And as he stared after her hurrying figure, baffled and slightly hurt, it flashed in his mind that she had said _We're_ going, and that he hadn't even asked her who she was going with…but then she'd turned the corner, and he knew he couldn't go after her.

He pitched his to-go cup in the wastebasket.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Fairytale of New York**

**Chapter Nine: If You are Good at Counting**

A/N: I am the not dead. I swear. Just busy. Graduating. From college.

* * *

If were to ask your average New Yorker how many pigeons there were in New York City, they might give you a strange look, or laugh, or perhaps even try to guess for you. None of them will know.

None of them will know how many grey slate, dull rainbow-brushed pigeons there are dozing around Columbus Circle, or stalking crumbs at curbs, or noisily fluttering from sill to sill: none of them will know. Only tourists notice the pigeons anymore.

None of them will be able to tell you how many crows lurk in Central Park, how many starlings roost atop lampposts, how many darting sparrows perch on outdoor café walks, how many seagulls haunt the riverside with their hungry cries.

If you want to know, you have to ask someone else.

* * *

"They will have gotten there by now, right?" asked Broadway.

"And how do you expect me to know?" demanded Hudson. He longed for his armchair and for the hokey match he was missing, fleetingly, before he again steeled himself to the discomfort of the nook under the bridge, and the noise of metal beating metal, announcing the inevitable arrival of another train overhead. "_I've_ certainly never been outside the city, _I_ don't know what more of this strange land there is. They could be halfway to Scotland now, for all I could tell you."

"Marjorie said it wasn't that far though," Broadway said. "I still don't get why Goliath got to go with them and not one of us."

"Goliath is leader," Hudson said immediately. "It was his decision to make."

"I know," Broadway said, sullenly.

Hudson sighed. He tired of explaining this. "No matter how many times you bemoan it, lad, what's done is done. There's no way Elisa and the lass could have hid more than one of us, and since it wasn't going to be _me_, and Brooklyn has his injury to recover with, and neither you nor Lexington is much a match for Demona alone, it was left to him."

"But do you think Demona will follow them?" Broadway gazed at Hudson with wide eyes. "Leave the city?"

Hudson gave a small grunt. "Demona seems more used to this new world than any of us. And she's made no vow to protect anything."

Broadway kept his eyes on his mentor for a moment longer, then returned his attention to the building they were keeping watch over. The windows on the corner of the sixth floor were dark, one tapped up with cardboard and a plank of wood.

"But why would she come back?" Broadway asked after some moments. "She's got to realize we wouldn't let Marjorie stay here after what happened."

Hudson shook his head. "No telling for sure," he said. "And I'll be taking no more risks. Too much at stake for that."

Broadway took that in silence, and said no more.

* * *

Brooklyn glowered down at the streets below the clock tower, so resembling their stone counterparts that Lexington found it hard not to comment. Instead he kept his eyes peeled on the skyline, resolutely keeping vigilance for danger he was sure would not come.

"We should be out there too," Brooklyn said, not for the first time. Lexington wondered how many times the conversation would repeat itself.

"You're hurt, and we don't need four of us staking out Marjorie's place. Demona's not going to show her face there anyway."

Brooklyn's eyes flashed—literally—at the mention of her name. "Kinda wish she would," he muttered darkly. "I'd like to know where she is rather than letting it go as a mystery, unlike everyone else around here."

Lexington hopped up on the wall beside his brother and glared at him. "Which do you care about more: revenge, or keeping Marjorie safe?"

"I don't see the two as mutually exclusive," Brooklyn answered, his voice one long, sharp edge.

"Alright," Lexington scoffed. "Stop working yourself up. One more sunrise and your shoulder will be healed up, and Hudson will let you out patrolling."

"I'm not a hatchling, and it's fine now," Brooklyn shot back, stiffly raising his right arm up and down. "It's just a little sore. I can still glide with—uh!" Brooklyn stopped raising his arm and pulled it in, looking annoyed. "Well, I can glide with it if I don't do _that_," he amended, defiantly meeting Lexington's skeptic look.

"Oh yeah? Why don't we put that to the test?" Lexington stood up and let his wings flare in the gust of upwards air.

"Leave? When Hudson put us on guard duty?" Brooklyn looked suddenly doubtful. "I…don't know about that. Who'll guard the tower?"

"Who's not a hatchling?" Lexington taunted. "Besides, there's always Bronx. We'll just stretch our wings for a few minutes. Elisa's gone, Marjorie's gone, and Goliath won't know. You in?"

As if knowing he was being discussed, Bronx perked his ears up and stood from where he'd been watching them by the top of the stairs. As he reached Brooklyn he gave a petulant whine, and Brooklyn patted his head consolingly. He never really needed all that much convincing to go out adventuring.

"Don't worry Bronx," he said. "We'll be right back. Be good and guard the tower, will you?"

Bronx watched them leave, and he continued to stare after them long after they'd disappeared among the night as blurs, then as shadows, and then as nothing at all. And then he lay down, grumbling in his own way about the disappointing turn the evening had taken.

But only a moment had passed before he was on his feet again; a lone pigeon had dared to land upon the balcony edge, bobbing its head as it waddled its way along like it was set to some invisible metronome. Bronx waited until it drew nearer to him, not moving, and then he let loose his growl, and stalked towards it. Guarding meant guarding.

The pigeon gave him a remarkably unimpressed look, cooed coolly, and then flapped further off down the balcony.

Bronx gradually grew his growl to full-throated bark and trotted after it, filled with irritation and excitement that he was being ignored, and there was still something to do. The pigeon took off in a burst of resentment as Bronx closed in, and disappeared from view. Satisfied, Bronx huffed, glanced to see if there might be any other offending trespassers, and finally returned to his spot, to await those who were not unwelcome to return.

* * *

Interestingly, if you managed to track down someone who could tell you how many pigeons, how many crows, how many sparrows and robins and wings and claws and beaks and feathers, you might not think to ask how many owls live in the city that never sleeps.

But perhaps you do think. Naturally, the number would be bigger than you imagine. Wildlife has little choice these days but to live inside the cracks, but for the sake of the argument let's say you are somewhat more specific in your question.

Perhaps you don't ask how many in general there are. Perhaps you eliminate all the raptors and nightbirds that reside in the borough's zoos and scientific research labs, and perhaps you don't count those confused hunters who stray into the city but reside elsewhere, like so many thrill-seekers out on the town for a night. Perhaps you ask: how many free owls belong to the city?

Funnily enough, there are actually two people who could answer this for you: one would simply say that it's really none of your business, and you would listen, and agree.

I would simply tell you the answer.

* * *

Lexington sailed on the wind, glad to be free of the tower for a few moments more. He'd kept a watchful eye on Brooklyn in case he'd been exaggerating before, but there was no cause to worry. Brooklyn was being careful, but Lexington supposed there was no reason to overdo it. He caught Brooklyn's eye and pointed to the top of high-rise just to the left of their path, and together they descended.

"Everything fine?" Lexington asked. Brooklyn nodded, massaging his right shoulder. Lexington was glad to see he seemed calmer.

"There's just one thing, though," Brooklyn said with a frown. He opened his mouth, but then a low plane screeched overhead like a giant bird, drawing both of their eyes. "Eh, never mind. Probably nothing," Brooklyn muttered when it had passed from overhead.

Lexington, wearily expecting another diatribe on Demona, was taken aback. "What is it?" he asked.

Brooklyn frowned slightly, then shrugged. "I was just thinking," he began, "about what Demona was doing at Marjorie's apartment that night."

Lexington stared at him. "Trying to kill her," he said slowly. "Remember?"

"But that wasn't the first night she tried it," Brooklyn said. "She had to have gone the night before last, the night Marjorie spent over with us at Elisa's. She threw a fit and wrecked the place, didn't she? So why try again the second night?"

It began to dawn on Lexington at where Brooklyn was getting at. "She came back knowing there was a chance Marjorie would see the mess the next day and not stay the night there," he said. He shot a curious look at Brooklyn. "What do you think about it?"

Brooklyn shrugged more widely this time, wincing as he pushed his injury a bit too far. "Can't really say what goes through the mind of a psychopath, but still…when Demona had her cornered…why not just get it done with?"

Lexington did not like to think about the possibility of what Brooklyn was suggesting, and shifted uncomfortably. "I dunno…she's evil? She likes seeing her victims scared before she finishes them. Why does it matter?"

Brooklyn stared right into Lexington's eyes. "So it didn't seem like Marjorie was holding back anything to you?"

"No," Lexington answered immediately. Then he said, "Well…maybe…" At last he shook his head, looking annoyed. "She was probably just scared. We barely got there in time."

Brooklyn nodded, but he didn't look that convinced. He turned back towards the skyline surrounding them. "Well, I still think it's time we found out what Demona was up to that first night in the park. She might still be trying to is that an owl over there?"

"What? Where?" But Lexington needn't have asked, for the gleaming white flash of wings drew his eyes immediately. The owl was soaring and cutting through the air just beyond the satellite towers on the building in front of them, heading southward towards the park.

Both Brooklyn and Lexington turned and stared at each other when the owl was out of sight. Brooklyn said "We've got to go after it!" at approximately the same time Lexington said "You can't seriously think we should go after it."

"It could lead us to Demona!" Brooklyn insisted.

"_How?_ It's a bird!"

Brooklyn was up on the ledge and halfway off before Lexington could move. "It's a bird with a link to Demona, and it's the only one we've got!"

"Brooklyn, wait!" called Lexington, but Brooklyn was already catching an updraft to sail past the buildings before them, to make his way to the park. Lexington set off immediately after, cursing his luck and his poor judgment. Hudson wouldn't have liked the idea of the two of them going off and leaving the tower unprotected for five minutes—how was he going to explain they'd been out all night chasing a bird?

* * *

The funny thing about pigeons: they're not the sort of bird to be admired, and on the most part they are not considered to be very smart, or clean, or appealing in any applicable sense of the word. Yet they are the only birds to own a city.

Because the people rushing down the streets day and night, the people flying in on their big metal birds to gape at the glowing neon and the proud Lady and the gleaming towers lit up in the sun, all the people ignoring everyone else in the Park, in their banks and shops and restaurants, all the people flying though the air under the ground in their thick metal worms as they pretend they live and know this place—they don't.

Do you know what a person's mind is?

People's minds are vast and peculiar and rich with sensations and experiences and colors and tastes and memories, but they are singular. They begin and then they end, unknown to anyone else. And when that happens, all secrets, all sensations—gone.

And thus the foundations of collective human memory have no chance to gather, to build, to solidify into an accessible structure. The steppingstones of the dead are constantly being paved over by the noisy, vibrant dreams of the living. Search back in your mind. Can you see the Lady when she was new, and golden in the sun, the color of her sharp and biting on your eyes, until they burned with joy? Can you feel the cold of the winters in your bones, feel the music leaking from everywhere, full of danger and gunsmoke? Can you hear those new ships pulling in, groaning, as the fresh-faced weary refuse dreamers stumbled down? Can you see her spires rivaling the stars, building inch by inch upwards with new lights each passing year like cold stalks of wheat?

Because that's part of the City you never knew. You've never been introduced.

Now…do you know what a pigeon's mind is?

* * *

"Brooklyn! Think about this! It's only a bird!"

"It's heading further south!" Brooklyn yelled, either not hearing Lexington or ignoring him. "Come on, we'll lose it!"

Lexington gave up trying to reason with Brooklyn, condemning all of the very reasonable points against this wild owl chase (including those of Brooklyn's injury, the fact that as they had no way of knowing where the bird was headed to the only way to catch it was by following it blindly, and _that _meant adjusting to every single dive and sudden turn it took, which in turn increased the possibility of Brooklyn making his arm worse) to stew in silence. Not to mention (because he had given up on it), birds could actually _fly_ instead of just gliding, and right now it seemed to be determined to rub that fact in their faces as smugly as it could.

It would soar along above them as if it didn't notice them, waiting for the moment when finally one of them had gained enough altitude to reach it, then plummet downwards and loop back around them in another direction. Most of the time when this happened (for it had happened a few times now…Lexington resolved to look up snowy owls when this was over. He was certain that they were not supposed to be this smart), they found the owl unconcernedly preening itself on a tree branch or power line, only for it to take off and lead them on the chase again.

It was sometime after the bird, though some highly impressive maneuvering, had tricked both Brooklyn and himself into crashing into one another in midair that he realized he wanted this bird caught as bad as Brooklyn did, albeit for different reasons.

"Alright, time-out," Lexington growled, heaving himself up onto the oak branch that had broken his fall. "We're going to get spotted if we keep this up. We need a strategy."

The chase had led them so far up Madison and down countless rooftops, until finally they'd hit the park, which was a blessing. The air above the trees was considerably clearer, and the trees themselves proved to be much softer than concrete.

"You don't say," Brooklyn said, sounding winded. He was somewhere above Lexington, and from the sound of cracking and rustling he was also struggling to right himself.

"How's that shoulder?" Lexington asked.

"Not better," Brooklyn grunted. "Never mind about me; think up something fast. We might lose the bird if we can't see it."

_Who?_

Lexington's gaze snapped forward. He knew Brooklyn had heard it too, and that within seconds they'd both spotted it—the damn owl, a ghostly white smudge in the dim light of Central Park streetlamps, watching them from a tree directly across the path.

"I really don't like that bird," Lexington growled.

* * *

Carol Ildia was extremely sour.

Contrary to the opinions of a majority of her tenants, when landlording Carol did not run a particularly tight ship. In fact, her landlord record metaphor ran more along the lines of a iceberg: things just sort of worked themselves out around her without the slightest effort on her part, and no one questioned the severe, commanding attitude that was only a carefully presented tip of her personality.

Currently something was upsetting her, and she no longer felt like an iceberg.

The phone rang. Carol ignored it.

It kept ringing. So Carol ignored it some more.

She was going to answer it. But only because she knew who it was calling her, and knew they would not give up until she answered, and knew that it had to ring at least another hour before the person on the other end was as going to be as annoyed as she was.

So an hour later, she answered the phone.

"For just how long will you always be a stubborn donkey's ass?" said the voice on the other end.

"Just as long as you are always an irritating, spiteful floozy," Carol answered. "So, how have you been?"

"_Fabulous_," answered the voice. "I keep telling you. New York is great but ohmy_god_ L.A. is _so_ much more fun. When are you ever going to come visit me?"

"It has already been established that 'never' is the answer to that question," said Carol.

"Well, yeah, okay. I wouldn't really want you here either. You're a real drag most of the time."

Carol clenched the phone tightly, but kept her voice level. The good thing about phones was that you didn't have to work so hard at hiding how nettled someone made you. "Which is why you're so desperate for my attention. You're logic is as airtight as always."

The voice on the other end of the phone cascaded into perfect, chiming laughter. "Don't have a _cow_, darling. Sisters should take the time to catch up with each other, and it's been _so_ long since we talked last."

"We're not sisters."

The voice on the phone was silent. "So something _is_ bothering you," it said. "Mason was right. What is it?"

"Mason?" Carol frowned. "Who—oh. Right. Changed his name again, did he?"

The woman giggled. "Well, do you blame him? It's fun, really. I'm thinking of switching myself."

Carol had filled notebooks full of sonnets and odes that went out of style centuries ago. She had spent three years living in a Tibetan Buddhist temple studying the art of sand mandalas, painting vast and intricate portraits of the universe with colored sand only to upon completion let them blow away in the wind after days of laborious work. It had been over a decade at least (if not much, much longer) since Carol had pulled down a job with a salary, she was dating a Hell's Angel, and just yesterday she'd shaved off all her hair. She hated being the sensible, predictable one in her family, she really did.

"Between your jet-setting and what he gets up to, the both of you are really missing the point of normal life," Carol said.

"Well, you can tell me all about it when I get there," she said cheerily. "I'm coming up either tomorrow or three weeks from now."

"…Alright, I'll regret asking, but why so soon or so late?"

Carol felt the smirk swell up on the other end of the phone. "Well, _Tommy_ has his own private jet but _Michael_ has his own yacht. The latest boy-toys, you know, just wondering if you had any advice on which to pick this time."

If there was a sound that accompanied jaw clenching, perhaps a slow, menacing grind, that was what was heard through the phone connection. "You know what? I'll just figure it out myself. Kisses!"

Down went the phone in a sharp slam, crashing down in a formidable display of temper. The bad thing about hanging up phones, Carol decided, was that you couldn't show the other person just how strong your arm was when you did it.

* * *

It was an especially windy night in Central Park.

_If a gargoyle knocks into a tree alone in the woods_, Brooklyn found himself wondering, _does he make a sound?_

He and Lexington were split up, and he was currently riding the gusts low just above the trees. Lexington's idea—had to trap it before it got too much room to fly faster than they could glide, but Brooklyn couldn't tell if they were even cornering the thing. There was the occasional flash of white he thought he could see though the leaves, but it was impossible to get a fix by sight alone.

So it was a good thing he wasn't on his own.

"Heading east!" yelled Lexington from behind him. Lexington was jumping and leaping from tree to tree, attempting to herd the bird upwards to where Brooklyn was waiting.

Brooklyn leaned into the wind and cracked a smile as there came an infuriated shriek from somewhere below him. "Running out of trees, Lex! Make your move!"

And it was instantaneous: Lexington burst upwards from the branches, roaring and eyes aglow, a mad, shrill white blur just beyond his talons, rocketing straight up towards Brooklyn—

—he caught it—

—and remembered that owls, being hunters as well as wild animals, possessed an extremely vicious nature when threatened. Also, razor-sharp talons.

"Ow! Arrah! No, bad owl, ow ow _LEXINGTON NO—"_

_WHAM._

Lexington, coming up too fast after the owl and unable to swerve around Brooklyn's erratic movements, collided with Brooklyn head on with a painful yelp.

"We're falling!"

"No kidding!"

"Do something!"

"I—_OUCH_! It bit me!"

"Left! Left now!"

"My left or y—"

_CRACK._

Screeching in absolute fury, the owl was gone. Brooklyn and Lexington lay, heads scrambled and fresh cuts stinging, on the remains of what had once been a large tree branch of an elderly oak just on the rim of the Sheep's Meadow. _So we do make a sound_, Brooklyn thought dazedly. _We go "ouch." _"Ouch."

"Ohhhh…." Lexington groaned. "Where…did it…"

"Uhhhhhm," answered Brooklyn. "Well. Good news. I know where it's going."

"And the bad news?" asked Lexington, pulling his head upright and cradling it with his palm.

Brooklyn pointed wearily upwards, across the Meadow, and to a towering building just outside the park. "It's going over there."

Lexington's still flashing eyes slowly followed the arch of Brooklyn's arm to the building, up its glass walls to the low clouds that were drifting down, where on a clear night you could see straight to the top, where there rested a grand atrium, and atop that rested—

"Oh, no," Lexington groaned again, letting his head fall. "Well, of course it'd go there."

"Yep," Brooklyn grunted. "Are we….still going after it?"

Lexington sighed. "…Yeah," he said, finally. "Don't know about the Demona connection thing, but it's a wild animal. It shouldn't stay in the city like this, it'll die. We should go after it." He attempted sitting up, then stopped. "In a minute, we'll go after it."

"Yeah. Right. Good. A minute," Brooklyn agreed, beginning to nod his head and then very quickly stopping.

* * *

If there were a painted portrait of Owen Burnett, it would have been painted in by none other Piet Mondrian in his classic Neo-Plasticism style, nothing but perfect horizontal and vertical lines and dark colored rectangles floating on white. Owen Burnett didn't look like perpendicular lines and right angles. But he seemed to give off that impression.

A Mondrian actually hung in his office behind him. It was a gift from Mr. Xanatos, naturally, who had an eye for those kinds of things. Owen had been very moved, or at least as moved as someone like Owen Burnett could be.

He now sat at his desk in his office, alone in the castle now as he had been for the past few months with his employer incarcerated. It made for a very quiet work environment—little distraction, perfect privacy, and, though he would never consciously admit it—abysmal boredom.

For there were things to be done: forms to sign, employees to manage, progress reports to be written. No time for—

A flash on a grey television screen. Another. Owen stopped and allowed the security screens before him his full attention, the more mundane aspects of his duties momentarily tabled.

There was another flash, bright white, somewhere above the northeast turret. Then, there was nothing: moments of still halls and gardens and stone walls, black and grey and undisturbed.

A camera screen burst into a split-second of static and went dark.

Owen Burnett, nodding his head once in silent confirmation, stood up from his desk, the sharp, perfect line of his suit aligning in an uncanny ninety-degree angle just as rigid as his cherished Mondrian. Mr. Xanatos did have an eye for these kinds of things.

* * *

Lexington and Brooklyn crept as stealthily as they could against the battery wall, which had centuries before been pocked with scars accumulated from years of battle. It still possessed all its former scars (Xanatos was a stickler for detail) but now it also sported small, highly sensitive cameras here and there—and it would probably be best, they'd silently agreed, that they didn't risk breaking any more of them in order not to be seen.

As for the owl—exhausted. Or it seemed to be after its long and impressive flight all the way to the top of the castle, perched with its back to them on a cracked stone on the wall just before the beginning of the garden Xanatos had installed in the courtyard. Both Lexington and Brooklyn knew better by now that to hope the owl wasn't quick enough to react to a sudden attempt to capture it (Brooklyn especially). But, perhaps if it was too tired to put up much of a fight anymore…

A door opened in the courtyard bellow, a sharp ribbon of light cutting across the dewy ground. The both of them froze, hands outstretched on either side of the owl, not more than a couple of inches behind it. There was an almost imperceptible shiver that ran down the owl's back, and it lazily leaned forward and glided the span of the courtyard directly toward the door.

"No!" hissed Brooklyn. He jumped from the wall and glided far less gracefully down, Lexington close behind.

In the seconds that followed, Owen Burnett seemed to have stepped into a reality that was decidedly off-kilter. Within a hairsbreadth of opening the door to the castle courtyard and stepping out, a dazzling white blur of ever increasing size seemed to be drawn towards his head at an alarming speed. It was only in the space of one heartbeat that his eyes latched on to the basic symmetry of the blur just enough for his brain to flash the abrupt message "OWL" and then the thing was past him, the impressively sharp talons drawing a part in his perfectly ordered hair. His pityingly slow human reflexes at last kicked in, and at not a moment wasted, because two red-green blurs were but seconds behind the owl, and had he not thrown himself out of their path in time ("S'cuse us, coming through!") it would have resulted in a rather uncomfortable mess for all involved.

It was already resulting in an unfortunate mess immediately inside the castle hall, where he confusion of wings in the enclosed space had sent several objects of worth tumbling to the floor in a cacophony of bangs and clatters.

"Hmm," said Owen Burnett.

It took twenty minutes to follow the trail of mayhem to its final destination, which, in a way that equally fitting and irritating, happened to be the previously spotless kitchen that the gargoyles had been so fond of despoiling when they had lived in the castle.

"Don't hurt it, it's an endangered species!"

"_We're_ an endangered species!"

Owen Burnett wearily opened the kitchen door and drank in the sight of the invaded kitchen: pans and bottles scattered, flour dusting the floor and cabinets, fallen feathers mixed in with broken dishes…

"Hold it there, Lex!"

"With _WHAT?"_

The owl looked furious, the pupils of its large eyes drawn into tiny pricks of fear and ferocity, it's feathers puffed out as it beat its wings in a panic. It also seemed to be tiring, relatively trapped between the gargoyles and the point where the angle of the ceiling tapered down to meet the corner of the wall, it could not, or would not, pick itself off the ground. The gargoyles seemed frazzled as well; the one called Brooklyn was covered in scratches up and down his arms, and his hair was a tormented mess. Lexington's eyes were aglow, a long gash running from the crown of his skull down to one ear.

Suddenly Brooklyn lunged and the owl was caught, silent and breathing heavily, wings pinned, between his hands. Lexington let out a cheer. Owen Burnett cleared his throat.

The two of them froze, looking at the doorway where Own stood with mouths agape. Owen Burnett raised an eyebrow, wondering if he did it enough if it would get stuck that way. It might as well, judging from how odd his professional life had become lately. "May I ask what it is you are doing?"

The gargoyles looked at one another. "Uh…"

"Well…"

"This is…an owl," Brooklyn said. He held out the owl slightly, as if presenting it. "We caught it."

"It's a….gargoyle thing," Lexington interjected. "All the time, back in, you know, Scotland—"

"The owl—because it's—ah, sneaky—"

"—very fast—"

"And Brooklyn won, so…um…"

"I see," Owen said, removing his glasses, a small handkerchief, polishing his glasses, sliding them on again, and pocketing the handkerchief. "Get out."

Lexington and Brooklyn shared a glance, taken aback. "Okay," said Brooklyn just as Lexington said "Love to."

They shuffled out of the kitchen, shoulders tense, expressions crossed between confusion and embarrassment. "Wait," Owen commanded suddenly, and they both looked back.

Owen Burnett stood in the wrecked hallway, holding out a simple round birdcage, approximately the right size for an owl. "You'll need to use this, if I'm not mistaken," he drawled, setting it down and turning away. "_And_," he added sternly as he walked away from them, "I will be informing Mr. Xanatos about this incident."

Brooklyn bristled, then seemed to deflate. "Yeah. Sure, whatever."

"Thanks for the birdcage?" said Lexington.

* * *

Dawn broke across the city like a stirring cat, slow and soft and then suddenly alert. Over Columbus Circle a flock of one hundred seventy-four pigeons landed and pecked the ground and warbled, took off and waddled and cooed and no one in particular noticed very much.

The light of the morning was an intense gold, but it soon faded into the soft blue of morning, to the clear light of noon. Close to seven thousand pigeons menaced the Central Park area. More than forty, but less than sixty pigeons sunned themselves on the roof of Belvedere Castle, or so I've been told. I haven't been by there lately. Bad stuff.

Atop the Clock Tower, five gargoyles stood frozen, and each wore a snoozing pigeon on each shoulder, all completely oblivious to one another, save one particularly aware pigeon, who sat on the stout canine-like gargoyle's head and seemed quite smug about it.

The gargoyles slept, All the nocturnal creatures slept. Most of them really needed the rest.

There are ninety-nine pigeons waiting for me to show up in my favorite spot by the pond around noon today, if you'd like to find me there. I won't tell you where the owl is.

That's private.


End file.
